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TEXT-BOOK OF POETRY; 



FBOM 



¥ORDS¥ORTH, COLERIDGE, BURNS, BEATTIE, 
GOLDSMITH, AND THOMSON. 



KETCHES OF THE AUTHORS' LIVES, 
NOTES, AND GLOSSARIES. 



FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND CLASSES. 



BY THE 

Eev. HEIsTEY N. HUDSON. 



B O S T O IST: 

PUBLISHED BY GINN BROTHERS. 

1875. 



:i2 1875 r^cn) 1 






Entered according to Act of Congress in tlie year 1875, 

By HE:N^KY IN". HUDSOI^, 

In tlie Office of tlie Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



J. F. Loughlin, Book, Job, and Music Printer, 18 Post-Office Square, Bostou. 



PREFACE 



It is really as important that people should be disposed to read 
what is good, as it is that they should know how to read. For the 
ability to converse wdth books is as liable to abuse as any other gift, 
and is in fact as much abused at this very time, and that too to the 
injury of the readers themselves, both in mind and heart. It is 
abundantly in proof that, of the books now appearing from day to 
day, the meanest and the worst, those made up of the cheapest and 
the foulest sensational flash, are read a great deal the most. The 
reason of this surely must be that, while people are taught to read, 
due care is not taken to plant and cherish in them right intellectual 
and literary tastes. In our education, therefore, it is of prime con- 
cern that such tastes should be early set or quickened in the mind; 
that while we are giving people the ability to converse with books, 
no pains should be spared to inspire them with the love of books 
that are good. Once possess them with a genuine, hearty love of 
a few first-rate authors, and then their culture in all its parts, so far 
as books can minister to it, is duly cared for: that love, those tastes, 
will become a sort of instinct, to prompt and guide them to Avhat is 
wholesome and pure. And in this, as in other things, the ways of 
purity and health are also the ways of lasting and ever-growing 
pleasure and delight. The abiding, uncloying sweetness, the liv- 
ing, un withering freshness of books in which conscience presides, 
truth illuminates, and genius inspires, are the proper food and de- 
lectation of a chaste and well-ordered mind; and to have a due sense 
and relish of those qualities, is at once the proof and the pledge 
of moral and intellectual health: for here it may with special fit- 
ness be afiirmed that "love is an unerring light, and joy its own 
security." 

It is on this principle, it is with a constant view to this end, that 
I have worked in selecting and ordering the contents of the present 
volume. These are the thoughts that prompted, and have through- 
out governed, the undertaking. In my own teaching, I have long 
felt the want of such a text-book, and have supplied the lack there- 
of as I best could. As for the reading-books, of which so many are 
in common use, I neither could nor would have any thing to do with 
them. I have no faith in them whatsoever: the very principle of 

iii 



IV PREFACE. 

them I hold to be radically vicious and wrong. Assuredly, the 
right way of teaching English literature, so as to develop the intel- 
lectual tastes, is by using authors, and not miscellaneous literary 
chips, such as the books in question are made up of. Both experi- 
ence and the reason of the thing amply instruct us that a mere col- 
lection of scraps and specimens gathered from a multitude of writ- 
ers is rather a hindrance than a help to the end proposed; because 
in such a course the pupil does not stay long enough with any one 
author to catch his spirit, to find his virtue, or to feel at home with 
him. In such a rapid flight from author to author, no true intel- 
lectual loves or taste&can possibly germinate in the mind: for these 
loves are like our domestic loves, which grow from long intercourse 
of heart with heart and soul with soul in the familiar atmosphere of 
home, and the companionship of faces endeared by time. In short, 
these current reading-books are alike tedious in the use and worth- 
less in the result: no mental delight can spring up from their pages : 
for any purpose but a mere mechanical pronouncing of words and 
sentences, they are sheer impertinences. On the other hand, a 
taste for a good author is a thing of slow and silent growth, and can 
by no means be extemporized: to the forming and fixing of it 
nothing will serve, but that the author's virtue just soak into the 
mind from communing with him through many a studious and 
thoughtful hour. Such is indeed the method, such the process of 
all fruitful converse with intellectual and moral beauty, the only 
way to drink-in the efficacy thereof; a converse which Milton so 
well describes as "beholding the bright countenance of truth in 
the quiet and still air of delightful studies." 

The upshot of all which is that, for the ends of culture, instead 
of a course of nibbles and snatches over a wide, miscellaneous field 
of authorship, we should take a very few of the best authors, and 
then use them a great deal. A taste for Shakespeare or Words- 
worth alone, once thoroughly set in the mind, will readily guide 
him who has it to other good authors, and will at the same time 
keep him away from the bad by a spontaneous disgust of them. 

The contents of this volume, as will at once be seen, are all 
drawn from six authors. Nor does this list include any author 
now living. I set out with the determination not to admit any 
author who had not fairly won the rank of a classic; a thing that is 
seldom if ever done during an author's life : generally a hundred 
years is little time enough for settling so grave a question. And it 
is a fixed principle with me, that none but the very best authors 
should be taken for the use to which this volume is addressed; 
while, again, to be used as a text-book in school, and for setting the 
tastes and forming the minds of the young, is the highest honour 
to which any author can justly aspire. Of the several authors here 



PKEFACE. V 

included, I have aimed to select, if not the pieces best in them- 
selves, such at least as seemed best fitted for the use here designed. 
Therewithal, except in a few cases, which are duly remarked in 
the notes, I have given entire poems; and this to the end that a 
sense of artistic completeness and harmony may be secretly quick- 
ened and fostered in the pupil's mind. 

All, or nearly all, the pieces set forth in this collection are old, 
familiar, long-tried friends of mine : if I had not been in the habit 
of returning to them often, and conversing with them, for many, 
many years; and if I had not believed the verdure and freshness 
of them to be perennial, and such as no frequency of perusal can 
exhaust; I should not have admitted them: in a word, to my sense, 
"age cannot wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety"; 
for I would fain have the volume so composed as to gather about 

itself 

•• the fixed delights of house and home, 
Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot roam." 

It may be thought that some apology, or some explanation, is 
due from me for having filled so much of the volume with Words- 
worth. On this point I can but say that the book contains no more 
of Wordsworth than I really want, and have long been in the habit 
of using more or less, in my own classes; nor anymore than I think 
may be generally used with good effect in a course of English 
studies. And I am thoroughly satisfied that, next after Shake- 
speare, Wordsworth is the best of all the English poets for such 
use; and this chiefly because he is apt to inspire a deeper, stronger, 
and more abiding enthusiasm. In my observation, no mind that 
has once rightly felt the touch of his hand ever shakes off or out- 
grows its power ; nor can I think of any thing better which the 
school can do for young minds than to seize them with a life-long 
passion for him. 

Of the other authors and poems embraced in this volume, it may 
be enough to say that the consorting or grouping of them is by no 
means arbitrary. Strongly marked as the authors severally are 
with individual and characteristic traits, yet they naturally gravi- 
tate each to all, and all to each, by the force of mutual sympathy. 
To my sense, they are six highly congenial souls, and the more 
congenial for having each his original and independent strength. 
Thus the group affords a large variety of interest and attraction, 
while at the same time they all draw smoothly together under a 
common spirit, and to a common purpose; so that a right study of 
any one will serve to sharpen the student's relish and deepen his 
enjoyment of all the others. 

As to what is here done in the way of notes and comments, per- 
haps the less said, the better. Still it may not be amiss to observe 



VI PREFACE. 

that I have aimed at fitness, not for recitations proper, but simply 
for exercises; that teacher and pupils may commune together 
with the beauty and wisdom and eloquence of the authors, without 
having their thoughts too much diverted and drawn away to irrele- 
vant points. I have been specially desirous not to encumber pupils 
with excessive or superfluous help; deeming that the right way is, 
to bring the minds of the student and the author fairly together, to 
put the former in direct and free communication with the latter, — 
a process that may easily be defeated by thrusting too much of ex- 
planation and comment between them; — and then to leave the 
proper results to come in their own way and time, knowing that the 
more silent they are in coming, the surer they are to come, and 
the better when they come. In such studies, the great thing is, to 
get the pupils really to understand and relish what is before them, 
to taste its sweetness, to inhale its spirit, to catch its virtue: this 
done, the main end of the study is secured; this left undone, that 
end is missed, and the work is to be set down as a failure, whatever 
incidental benefits may accrue from the process. And here may 
be fitly applied to the study of poetry what Coleridge says in 
reference to his own poetical composition: '* Poetry has been to 
me its own ' exceeding great reward ' : it has soothed my afflictions; 
it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared soli- 
tude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good 
and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." 

In the sketches of the several authors' lives, I have endeavoured, 
with my best care and judgment, and with as much, fulness as the 
space would allow, to sort out and draw together such particulars 
of personal history and of native idiom as would best serve to im- 
press their characteristic traits, and to illustrate the correspond- 
ences between the man and his works. In such swift biographical 
summaries, it is very difficult to avoid a most unattractive dryness 
of style; and I dare not hope that these specimens stand clear of 
that fault. 



CONTENTS. 



WORDSWORTH. 

Page. 

Sketch of his Life 1 

Ruth 13 

The Russian Fugitive 16 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine 20 

The Oak and the Broom .20 

To the Daisy 22 

To the Small Celandine 23 

The Redbreast 24 

To a Young Lady, &c. 25 

Hart-leap Well. . 26 

Michael 30 

The Brothers 41 

The Old Cumberland Beggar 51 

The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 56 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 59 

The Two Thieves 59 

Power of Music 61 

Miscellaneous Sonnets 62 

Tintern Abbey .... * 92 

Laodamia 96 

Dion 100 

Character of the Happy Warrior . . . . . . .104 

Sonnets 106 

Devotional Incitements 107 

Ode to Duty 107 

Ode to Lycoris 108 

An Evening Voluntary 109 

The Somnambulist 110 

Ode, May Morning 112 



Vm TEXT -BOOK OF POETRY. 

Page. 

To May 113 

Brougham Castle 114 

The Pass of Kirkstone 116 

To Enterprise 117 

The Mountain Echo 119 

The Egyptian Maid 120 

Miscellaneous Poems ......... 129 

National Independence, &c 188 

Memorials of a Tour, &c 206 

Elegiac Pieces 212 

Ecclesiastical Sonnets . . , . . . . . .221 

On the Power of Sound 238 

Ode on Immortality 244 

The Prelude. Book Fu-st 251 

" Book Second 266 

First Year in College 276 

" Books 283 

" Sights m London 289 

" Men as they are Men 291 

" Love and Imagination 295 

The Excursion. Prospectus 298 

Book First ' . . 301 

Book Second 323 

Book Third . 344 

Book Fourth 367 

Book Fifth ...'.... 397 

Book Sixth 420 

Book Seventh 448 

Book Eighth 472 

Book Ninth 486 



OOLEKIDGE. 

Sketch of his Life 504 

Genevieve. Love 509 

The Ancient Mariner 510 

Christabel • ^l*? 



CONTEl!fTS. IX 

Page. 

Ode to the Departing Year . 525 

France. An Ode 529 

Fears in Solitude 531 

Hymn to Mont Blanc 537 

The Eolian Harp 539 

Eeflections, &c 540 

This Lune-Tree Bower, &c 542 

To William Wordsworth . . 544 

The Nightingale 547 

Frost at Midnight 549 

Dejection: An Ode 551 

Miscellaneous 554 



BUKNS. 

Sketch of his Life 557 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 561 

To the Owl . 566 

The Twa Dogs 567 

Tarn o' Shanter 569 

Address to the Deil 572 

The Vision 574 

On Pastoral Poetry . . . . . . . . . 577 

To a Mouse 578 

Bruar Water 578 

Castle-Gordon 579 

To Miss Cruikshanks 580 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 580 

Auld Mare Maggie 581 

To a Louse 582 

A Bard's Epitaph 682 

To a Mountain Daisy 583 

To the Shade of Thomson 583 

To Miss Logan 584 

A Prayer, &c 584 

Elegy on Captain Henderson 584 

On Sensibility 585 



X TEXT -BOOK OF POETRY. 

Page. 

Lincluden Abbey 586 

To the Guidwife, &c 586 

A Vision 587 

Epistle to Davie 588 

Epistle to Lapraik . " 588 

To William Simpson 590 

Epistle to a Young Friend 591 

Epistle to James Smith 592 

To Dr. Blacklock 594 

Songs 595 

Glossary 607 



BEATTIE. 

Sketch of his Life 615 

The Minstrel 617 



GOLDSMITH. 

Sketch of his Life ' . . 645 

The Deserted Village 647 



THOMSON. 

Sketch of his Life . 657 

The Castle of Indolence 659 

Glossary t:94 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



The birth-place of William Wordsworth is in Cumberland, a county lying in 
the north-west corner of England, and separated from Scotland by Sol way Frith. 
That region is specially distinguished in having numerous small lakes cradled 
among its hills and mountains, all of which have now been crowned with classic 
honours by the poet's hand. His father, John Wordsworth, was an attorney, and, 
having been engaged as law-agent by the Earl of Lonsdale, was set over the west- 
ern portion of the wide domain of Lowther, and lived at Cockermouth, in a manor- 
house belonging to that family. There William was born on the 7th of April, 
1770, the second of four sons. There was only one daughter in the family, 
Dorothy, who came next after the poet. Cockermouth stands on the Derwent, 
called by the poet " the fairest of all rivers," and looks back to the Borrowdale 
mountains, among which that river is born. The voice of that stream, he tells 
us, flowed along his dreams while he was a child. 

His mother, a wnse and pious woman, told a friend that William was the only 
one of her children about whom she felt anxious, and that he would be " remark- 
able either for good or evil." This was probably from what he himself calls bis 
" stiff, moody, and violent temper." Of this, which made him a wayward and 
headstrong boy, all that he seems afterAvards to have retained was that resolute- 
ness of character which stood him in good stead when he became a man. 

Of his mother, who died when he Avas eight years old, the poet retained a faint 
but tender recollection. At the age of nine, he, along with his elder brother 
Eichard, left home for school. It would be hard to conceive a better school-life 
for a future poet than that in which Wordsworth was reared at Hawkshead. 
High-pressure was then unknown ; nature and freedom had full swing. Bounds 
and locking-up hours they had none. The boys lived in the cottages of the village 
dames, in a natural, friendly way, like their own children. Their play-gounds 
were the fields, the lake, the woods, the hillsides, far as their feet could carry them. 
Their games were crag-climbing for ravens' nests, skating on Esthwaite Lake, 
setting springes for woodcocks. 

In Wordsworth's fourteenth year, when he and his brother were at home for 
the Christmas holidays, their father, who had never recovered heart after the 
death of his wife, followed her to the grave. The old home at Cockermouth 
was broken up, and the orphans were but poorly provided for. Large arrears were 
indeed due to their father from the strange, self-willed Earl of Lonsdale ; but these 
his lordship never chose to make good. Nevertheless the boys returned to school, 
and William remained there till his eighteenth year, when he left for Cambridge. 

From HaAvkshead Woi'dsworth took several good things with him. In book- 
learning, there was Latin enough to enable him to read the Roman poets with 
pleasure in after-years ; of mathematics, more than enough to start him on 
equality with the average of Cambridge freshmen; of Greek, probably not much, — 
ai least we never heard of it afterwards. It was here that he began that intimacy 
with the English poets which he afterwards perfected : but neither at school nor 
in after-life was he a devourer of books. 



2 WORDSWORTH I 

Of verse-making, his earliest attempts date from Hawksliead. A long copy 
of verses, written on the second centenary of the foundation of the school, Avas 
much admired; but he himself afterwards pronounced them but a " tame imita- 
tion of Pope." But more than any book-lore, more than any skill in verse- 
making, or definite thoughts about poetry, was the free, natural life he led at 
Hawkshead. It was there that he was smitten to the core with that love of 
Nature which became the prime necessity of his being. Not that he Avas a 
moody or peculiar boy, nursing his own fancies apart from his companions : so 
far from this, he was foremost in all schoolboy adventures, — the sturdiest oar, 
the hardiest cragsman at the harrying of ravens' nests. Weeks and months, he 
tells us, passed in a round of school tumult. No life could have been every way 
more unconstrained and natural. But, school tumult though there was, it was 
not in a made play-ground at cricket or rackets, but in haunts more fitted to 
form a poet, — on the lakes and the hillsides. All through his school-time, he 
says that in pauses of the " giddy bliss " he felt " gleams like the flashing of a 
shield." And as time went on, and common school pursuits lost their novelty, 
these visitations grew deeper and more frequent. 

In October, 1787, at the age of eighteen, Wordsworth passed from Hawkshead 
School to St. John's College, Cambridge. College life, so important to those 
whose minds are mainly shaped by books and academic influences, produced on 
him but little impression. The stripling of the hills had not been trained for 
college competitions : he felt that he " was not for that hour, nor for that place." 
The range of scholastic studies seemed to him narrow and timid. As for col- 
lege honours, he thought them dearly purchased at the price of the evil rivalries 
and the tame standard of excellence which they fostered in the eager few who 
entered the lists. No doubt he was a self-suflficient, presumptuous you.th, so to 
judge of men and things in so famous a university : but there wCre qualities of 
a rarer kind latent in him, which in time justified him in thus taking his own 
course. 

When arrived in Cambridge, a northern villager, he tells us there were other 
poor, simple schoolboys from the North, now Cambridge men, ready to wel- 
come him, and introduce him to the ways of the place. So, leaving to others 
the competitive race, he let himself, in the company of these^ drop quietly down 
the stream of the usual undergraduate jollities. In The Prelude he tells us how 
in a friend's room in Christ's College, once occupied by Milton, he toasted the 
memory of the abstemious Puritan, till the fumes of wine took his brain ; — the 
first and last time that the future water-drinker experienced that sensation. Dur- 
ing the earlier part of his college course he did just as others did, lounged and 
sauntered, boated and rode, enjoyed wines and supper-parties, " days of mirth and 
nights of revelry ; " yet kept clear of vicious excess. 

When the first novelty of college life was over, growing dissatisfied with idle- 
ness, he withdrcAV somewhat from promiscuous society, and kept more by himself. Jj 
Living in quiet, the less he felt of reverence for those elders whom he saw. the '' 
more his heart was stirred with high thoughts of those whom he could not see. ! 
He read Chaucer under the hawthorn by Trompington Mill, and made inti- ■ i 
mate acquaintance with Spenser. Milton he seemed to himself almost to see i 
moving before him, as, clad in scholar's gown, that young poet had once walked i 
those same cloisters in the angelic beauty of his youth. 

During the Summer vacations Wordsworth and his sister, who had been | 
much separated since their childhood, met once more under the roof of their '( 
mother's kindred in Penrith. With her he then had the first of those rambles — ] 
by the streams of Lowthef and Emont — which Avere afterwards renewed Avith i 
so happy resiilts. Then, too, he first met Mary Hutchinson, his cousin, and his I 
wife to be. It Avas during his second or third year at Cambridge, that he first 
seriously formed the purpose of being a poet, and dared to hope that he might 
leave behind him something that Avould Ua'C. His last long vacation A\-as de- ■ 
voted to a walking-tour on the Continent along Avith a college friend from 
Whales. For himself, he had long cast college studies and their rewards behind 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 3 

him ; but friends at home could not see this without imeasy forebodinf^s. What 
was to become of a penniless lad Avho thus played ducks and drakes with youth's 
golden opportunities 1 But he had as yet no misgivings ; he Avas athirst only 
for Nature and freedom. So, with his friend Jones, staff in hand, he walked 
for fourteen Avceks through France, SAvitzerland, and the north of Italy. With 
four shillings each daily they paid their Avay. They landed at Calais on the eve 
of tbe day Avhen the King Avas to SAvear to the ncAV constitution. All through 
France, as tbey trudged along, they saAV a people rising Avith jubilee to Avelconie- 
in the dawn, as they thought, of a ncAV era for mankind. Nor Avere they on- 
lookers only, but sympathizers in the intoxication of the time, joining in village 
revels and dances Avith the frantic multitude. But these sights did not detain 
them, for they Avere bent rather on seeing Nature than man. Over the Alps 
and along the Italian lakes they passed Avith a kind of aAvful joy. 

In January, 1791,AVordsworth took a common degree, and quitted Cambridge. 
The crisis of his life lay betAveen this time and his settling doAA^n at Grasmere. 
He had resolved to be a poet ; but CA'en poets must be housed, clothed, and fed ; 
and poetry has seldom done this for any of its deA'otees, least of all such poetry 
as Wordsworth AA'as minded to AArite. But it Avas not the question of bread 
alone, but one much Avider and more complex, which noAv pressed upon him, 
— the question, What next 1 And the difficulty of meeting this Avas much en- 
hanced to him from the circumstance of his being turned loose upon a AAorld 
just heaving Avith the first throes of the French Kevolution. He had seen that 
event AA'hile it still Avore its earliest auroral hues, Avhen the people Avere mad Avith 
joy, as at the daAvn of a renovated Earth. That he should have staked his 
Avhole hope on it, looked for all good things from it, Avho shall Avonder'? 
Coleridge, Southey, almost every high-minded young man of that time, hailed 
it Avith fervour. Wordsworth Avould not have been the man he Avas, if he coiild 
have stood proof against the contagion. On leaving Cambridge he had gone 
to London. The Spring and early Summer months he spent there, not mingling 
in society, but AA'andering about the streets, noting all sights, obserA^ant of men's 
faces and Avays, haunting the open book-stalls. During these months he tells us 
he was preserved from the cynicism and contempt for human nature Avhich the 
deformities of croAvded life often breed, by remembrance of the kind of men he 
had first lived amongst, in thcmseh-es a manly, simple, uncontaminated race, 
and inA-ested Avith added interest and dignity by living in the same hereditary 
fields Avhere their forefathers had lived, and by moving about among the grand 
accompaniments of mountain storms and sunshine. The good had come first, 
and the evil, Avlien it came, did not stamp itself into the groundAAork of his im- 
agination. The folloAving Summer he visited his traA^elling companion Jones 
in Wales, and made a Avalking-tour in that country. 

In November, 1791, he visited Paris, and there heard the speeches that Avere 
made in the Hall of the National Assembly, Avhile the Brissotins Avere in the 
ascendant. A fcAv days he Avandered about the city, surveyed the scenes ren- 
dered famous by recent events, and CA^en picked up a stone as a relic from the 
site of the demolished Bastile. This rage for historic scenes he hoAA'ever con- 
fesses to have been in him more affected than genuine. From Paris he Avent to 
Orleans, and sojourned there for some time to learn the language. When, in 
the Fall of 1792, he returned to Paris, the September massacre had taken place 
but a month before ; the ^ving and his family Avere in prison ; the Eepublic A\-as 
proclaimed, and Robespierre in poAver. The young Englishman ranged through 
the city, passed the prison Avhere the King lay, visited the Tuileries, lately 
stormed, and the Place de Carrousel, a month since heaped Avith the dead. As 
he lay in the gan-et of a hotel hard by, sleepless, and filled with thoughts of 
Avhat had just occurred, he seemed to hear a voice that cried aloud to the Avhole 
city, " Sleep no more." Years after, those scenes still troubled him in dreams. 
He had ghastly A'isions of scaffolds hung with innocent victims, or of croAvds ready 
tor butchery, and mad AA^th the levity of despair. In his sleep he seemed to be 
pleading in vain for the life of friends, or for his OAvn, before a savage tribunal. 



4: WORDSWORTH : 

Returning to England at the close of 1792, he spent some time in London in 
great mental perplexity. He was horrified with the excesses in which the Rev- 
olution had landed ; yet not the less he clung to his republican faith, and his 
hope in the revolutionary cause. When every month brought tidings of fresh 
enormities in France, and opponents taunted him with these results of equality 
and popular government, he retorted that these were but the overflow of a res- 
ervoir of guilt, which had been filling up for centuries by the wrongdoings of 
kings and nobles. Soon France entered on a war of conquest, and he was 
doomed to see his last hopes of liberty betrayed. Still striving to hide the 
wounds of mortified presumption, he clung, as he lells us, more firmly than ever 
to his old tenets, while the friends of old institutions goaded him still further by 
their triumphant scorn. Overwhelined with shame and despondency at the ship- 
wreck of his golden dreams, he turned to probe the foundations on which all 
society rests. Not only institutions, customs,, law, but even the grounds of 
moral obligation and distinctions of right and wrong disappeared. Demanding 
formal proof, and finding none, he abandoned moral questions in despair. 

The nether gloom into which he was plunged, and the steps by which he won 
his way back to upper air, are set forth m the concluding Books of The Prelude, 
and partly in the character of the Solitary in The Excursion. These self-de- 
scriptions are well worth attention for the light they throw on Wordsworth's 
own mental history, and as illustrating by what exceptional methods one of 
the greatest minds of that time floated clear of the common wreck in which so 
many were entangled. His moral being had received such a shock that, as re- 
gards both man and Nature, he tried to close his heart against the sources of 
his former strength. The whole past of history, he believed, was one great 
mistake, and the best hope of the human race was to cut itself off even from all 
sympathy with it. Even the highest creations of the old poets lost their charm 
for him. They seemed to him mere products of passion and prejudice, wanting 
altogether in the nobility of reason. He tried by narrow syllogisms, he says, to 
unsoul those mysteries of being which have been thi-ough all ages the bonds of 
man's brotherhood ; that is, he grew sceptical of all those higher faiths which 
cannot be demonstrably proved. This moral state reacted on his feelings about 
the visible universe. It became to him less spiritual than it iised to be. He fell 
for a time under a painful tyranny of the eye, that craves ever new combinations 
of form, uncorrected by the reports of the other senses, uninformed by that 
finer influence that streams from the soul into the eye. 

In this sickness of the soul, this " obscuration of the master-vision," his sole 
sister came, like his better angel, to his side. Convinced that his otfice on Earth 
was to be a poet, not to break his heart against the hard problems of political 
philosophy, she led him away from perplexing theories and crowded cities into 
the open air of heaven. Together they visited, travelling on foot, many of the 
most interesting districts of England, and mingled freely with the country peo- 
ple and the poor. There, amid the freshness of Nature, his fevered spirit was 
cooled down. Earth's " first diviner influence " returned, he saw things again as 
he had seen them in his boyhood. This free intercourse with Nature in time 
brought him back to his true self, so that he began to look on life and the frame- 
work of society with other eyes, and to seek there for that Avhich is permanenl 
and intrinsically good. At this time, as he and his sister wandered about in 
various out-of-the-way parts of England, where they were strangers, he found 
not delight only, but instruction, in conversing with all whom he met. The 
lonely roads were open schools to him. There, as he entered into conversation 
with the poorest, and heard from diem their own histories, he got a new insight 
into human souls, discerned in them a depth and a worth where none appeared 
to careless eyes. The perception of these things made him loathe the thought of 
those ambitious projects which had lately deceived him. He ceased to admire 
strength detached from moral purpose, and learned to prize unnoticed worth, 
the meek virtues and lowly charities. Settled judgments of right and wrong 
returned, but they were essential, not conventional, judgments. 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 5 

Though this inward fermentation working itself into clearness was the most 
important, the bread-question must, at the same time, have been tolerably urgent. 
To meet this, he had, so far as appears, simply nothing, except what was allowed 
him by his friends. Of course, neither they nor he could long tolerate such a 
state of dependence- What, then, was to be done ? In his juncture, the newspaper 
press, an effectual extinguisher to a possible poet, was ready to have absorbed 
him. He had actually written to a friend in London, who was supporting him- 
self in this way, to find him like employment, when he was delivered from 
these importunities by a happy occurrence. In the close of the year 1794, he 
was engaged in attending at Penrith a friend, Raisley Calvert, who had fallen 
into a deep consumption. Calvert died early in 1795, and he bequeathed to 
Wordsworth a legacy of £900. He had divined Wordsworth's genius, and 
believed that he would do great things. Seldom, indeed, has so small a sum 
produced larger results. It removed at once Wordsworth's anxiety about a 
profession, rescued him from the newspaper press, set him to follow his true 
bent, and give free rein to the poetic power he felt working within him. 

On-e of the first result^ of this legacy Avas to restore Wordsworth permanently 
to the society of his sister. Hitherto, though they had met whenever occasion 
offered, they had not been able to set up house together ; but this was no longer 
impossible. And surely never has sister done a more delicate service for a brother 
than Dorothy Wordsworth did for the poet. She was a rarely-gifted woman, 
with eyes of preternatural brilliancy, imaginative, warm-hearted, and keenly 
responsive to every note of her brother's genius. De Quincey, who knew her 
well, describes her as "seeming inwardly consumed by a subtile fire of impas- 
sioned intellect." In many places of his Avorks the poet bears grateful testimony 
to what she did for him. At this time, he tells us, it Avas she Avho maintained 
for him a saving intercourse Avith his true self, opened for him the obstructed 
passage between head and heart, Avhence in time came genuine self-knoAvledge 
and peace. Again he says that his imagination was by nature too masculine, 
austere, even harsh ; he loved only the sublime and terrible, was blind to the 
milder graces of landscape and of character. She it Avas who softened and hu- 
manised him, opened his eye to the more hidden beauties, his heart to the gentler 
affections : 

"She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 

And humble cares, and delicate fears; 

A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 

And love, and thought, and joy." 

The first home which they shared together was at RacedoAvn in Dorsetshire, 
where they settled in the Fall of 1795^ on the strength of the £900. Wordsworth 
always looked back to this residence Avith special love. So retired was the place, 
that the post came only once a week. 'But the two read Italian together, gar- 
dened, and walked in the meadoAvs and on the tops of combs. These were their 
recreations. For serious Avork, Wordsworth fell first to writing Imitations of 
Juvenal, in which he assailed fiercely the vices of the time ; but these he never 
published. Then he wrote his poem of Guilt and Sorrow, which is far superior 
to any of his earlier pieces ; also his tragedy of The Borderers, and a few shorter 
poems. 

More important, however, than any poetry composed at Racedown was his 
first meeting there with Coleridge. Perhaps no tAA'o such men have met any- 
where on English ground during this century. WordsAvorth read aloud to his 
visitor nearly twelve hundred lines of blank-verse, " superior," says Coleridge, 
" to any thing in our language." This was probably the story of Margaret, 
which now stands in the First Book of The Excursion. When they parted, 
Coleridge says, " I felt myself a small man beside WordsAvorth ; " while, of 
Coleridge, Wordsworth, certainly no over-estimater of other men, said, " I have 
known many men who have done wonderful things, but the only wonderful man 
I ever knew was Coleridge." Their first intercourse had ripened into friendship. 
As Coleridge was then living at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, the Words- 



6 WORDSWORTH : 

worths moved in the Fall of 1797 to Alfoxden, in the immediate neighbourhood. 
The time spent there was one of the most delightful in Wordsworth's life. The 
two young men were of one mind in their poetic tastes and principles ; one too 
in their political and social views ; and each admired the other more than he did 
any other living man. In outward circumstances, too, they were alike ; both 
poor in money, but rich in thought and imagination ; both in the prime of 
youth, and boundless in hopeful energy. That Summer, as they wandered 
aloft on the airy ridge of Quantock, or dived into its sylvan combs, what high 
talk they must have held ! Long after, Wordsworth speaks of this as a very 
pleasant and productive time. The poetic well-head, now fairly unsealed, was 
flowing freely. Many of the shorter poems were then composed from the 
scenery that was before him, and from the incidents there seen or heard. 

The occasion of their making a joint literary adventure was curious. Cole- 
ridge, Wordsworth, and his sister, Avished to make a walking-tour, for which 
five pounds Avere needed, but were not forthcoming. To supply this Avant, they 
agreed to make a joint poem, and send it to some magazine Avhich Avould give 
the required sum. Accordingly, one CA'ening, as they trudged along the 
Quantock Hills, they planned The Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream 
Avhich a friend of Coleridge had dreamed. Coleridge supplied most of the 
incidents, and nearly all the lines. The poem soon grcAV, till it Avas beyond 
the desired five pounds' Avorth, so they thought of a joint volume. Coleridge 
was to take supernatural subjects, or romantic, and invest them Avith a human 
interest and resemblance of truth. WordsAvortli Avas to take every-day inci- 
dents, and, by faithful adherence-to nature, and true, but modifying colours of 
imagination, Avas to shed over common aspects of earth and facts of life such a 
charm as light and shade, sunlight and moonlight, shed o\-er a familiar land- 
scape. WordsAvorth Avas so much the more industrious of the tAvo, that he had 
completed enough for a volume Avhen Coleridge had only finished The Ancient 
Mar-iner, and begun Christabel and The Dark Ladie. Cottle, a Bristol book- 
seller, Avas called in, and he agreed to give WordsAA^orth thirty pounds for the 
pieces of his Avhicli made up the first volume of the Lyrical Ballads ; while for 
The Ancient Mariner, Avhich was to head the volume, he made a separate bar- 
gain Avith Coleridge. This A'olume, published in the Fall of 1798, Avas the first 
Avhich made WordsAvorth knoAvn to the world as a poet ; the Descriptive 
Sketches having attracted little notice. The volume closes Avith the poem on 
Tintern Abbey, in Avhich the poet speaks out his inmost feelings, and in his OAvn 
" grand style." It Avas completed during a Avalking-tour on the Wye with his 
sister, just before leaA'ing Alfoxden for the Continent. 

Before the volume appeared, WordsAvorth and his sister had sailed Avith 
Coleridge to Germany. At Hamburg, hoAvever, they parted company. Their 
ostensible purpose AA^as to learn German, but WordsAA'orth and his sister did 
little at this. He spent the Winter of 1798-99 in Goslar, and there his mind 
reverted to EstliAvaite and Westmoreland hills, and struck out a number of 
poems in his finest A'ein. So WordsAvorth omitted German, and gave the 
world, instead, immortal poems. Coleridge went alone to Gottingen, learned 
German, dived for the rest of his life deep into transcendental metaphysics, and 
the world got no more Ancient Mariners. 

In the Spring of 1799, WordsAA'orth and his sister set forth from Goslar on 
their return home. ArriA^ed in England, they passed most of the remainder of 
the year Avith their kindred, the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees. In Sep- 
tember, WordsAvorth took Coleridge, Avho also had returned from abroad, and 
had seen but fcAV mountains in his life, on a Avalking-tour, to shoAv the hills and 
lakes of Westmoreland. *' HaAvesAvater," Coleridge Avrites, " kept my eyes dim 
Avith tears, but I received the deepest delight from the divine sisters, ilydal and 
Grasmcre." It AA-as then that WordsAVorth saAV the small house at the ToAvn- 
End of Grasmere, Avhich he and his sister soon after fixed on as their home. 

They reached that place in December, 1799, and settled there in a small tAvo- 
storey cottage. With barely a hundred pounds a year between them, they were 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. - 7 

turning their backs on the world, cutting themselves off from professions, chances 
of getting on, and settling down in an out-of-the-way corner, with no employ- 
ment but verse-making, no neighbours but unlettered rustics. In the world's 
eye nothing birt success will justify such a course, and the world will not be too 
ready to grant that success has been attained. . But Wordsworth, besides a pro- 
phet-like devotion to the truths he saw, had a prudence, self-denial, and perse- 
verance rare among the sons of song. " Plain living and high thinking " were 
not only praised in verse, but acted out by him and his sister in that cottage- 
home. The year 1800 was ushered in by a long storm, which blocked up the 
roads for months, and kept them much indoors. Spring set them free, and 
brought to them their much-loved sailor brother, John, who was captain of an 
Indiaman. There was one small room containing their few books, which was 
called, by courtesy, the library. But Wordsworth was no reader; the English 
poets and ancient history were the only subjects he was really well read in. He 
tells a friend that he had not spent five shillings on new books in as many years, 
and of the few old ones which made up his collection, he had not read one-fifth. 
As for his study, that was in the open air. " By the side of the brook that runs 
through Easdaie," says he, " I have composed thousands of verses." 

The first months at Grasmere were so industriously employed, that some time 
in the year 1 800, when a second edition of the first volume of Lyrical Ballads 
was reprinting, he added to it a new volume. — The old Earl of Lonsdale, who 
still withheldfrom the Wordsworths their due, died in 1802, and was succeeded 
by a better specimen of manhood, who not only paid the original debt of £5000, 
but also the whole interest, amounting to £3500. This £8500 was divided into 
five shares, tvro of which went to the poet and his sister. Being thus strength- 
ened in worldly means, the poet, in October, 1802, enriched his fireside with a 
wife ; the lady being Mary Hutchinson, his cousin, and the intimate friend of 
his sister. In August, 1803, Wordsworth and his sister set out from Keswick 
with Coleridge on their memorable tour in Scotland. They travelled great part 
of the way on foot, up Nithsdale, and so on towards the Highlands. Coleridge 
turned back soon after they had reached Loch Lomond, being either lazy or out 
of spirits. Everywhere, as they trudged along, they saw the old familiar High- 
lands sights, as if none had ever seen them before ; and wherever they moved 
among the mountains, they left foot-prints of immortal beauty. He expressed 
what he saw in verse, she in prose, and it is hard to say which is the more 
poetic. 

Early in 1805, the first great sorrow fell upon the poet's home, in the loss of 
his brother. Captain Wordsworth. He was leaving England, intending to make 
one more voyage, and then to return and live with his sister and brother, when 
his ship was run on the shambles of the Bill of Portland by the carelessness of 
the pilot, and he with the larger part of his crew perished. For a long time the 
poet was almost inconsolable, he so loved and honoured his brother. His letters 
at the time, and his poems long after, are darkened with this grief. Captain 
Wordsworth greatly admired his brother's poetry, but saw that it would take 
time to become popular, and would probably never be lucrative ; so he would 
work for the family at Town-End, he said, and William would do something 
for the world. 

In 1807, Wordsworth came out with two more volumes of poetry, mostly 
written at Grasmere. He was now in his thirty-seventh year, so that these vol- 
umes may be said to close the spring-time of his genius, and to be its consum- 
:nate flower. Some of his later works many have equalled these, and may even 
show an increased moral depth and religious tenderness ; but there is about the 
best of the Grasmere poems a touch of ethereal ideality which he perhaps never 
afterwards reached. Among these is the Ode on Intimations oflmmoi-tality, which 
marks the highest point that the tide of poetic inspiration has reached in Eng- 
land since the days of Milton. 

The cottage at Town-End, Grasmere, was Wordsworth's home from the 
close of 1799 till the Spring of 1808. In the latter year, as that cottage was 



8 WOEDSWOETH : 

too small for his increasing family, he moved to Allan Bank, — a new house, 
on the top of a knoll to the west of Grasmere, overlooking the lake. There he 
remained till 1811, Coleridge being an inmate of his home during the earlier 
part of that time. In the Spring of 1811, he was obliged to remove thence to 
the Parsonage of Grasmere, where his home was darkened by the loss of two 
of his little children, a boy and a girl, Avho were laid side by side in Grasmere 
churchyard. This affliction, which at the Parsonage was rendered insupport- 
able by the continual sight of the graves, made the poet and his family glad to 
quit Grasmere for a new home at Rydal Mount, which offered itself in the 
Spring of 1813. This was their last migration, and there the poet and his wife 
lived till, many years after, they were carried back to join their children iu 
Grasmere churchyard. Besides those two children, his family consisted of a 
daughter and two sons. The daughter, Dorothy, but commonly called " Dora," 
afterwards Mrs. Quillinan, died before her father ; the sons still survive. Few 
poets have been by nature so fitted for domestic happiness, and fewer still have 
been blessed with so large a share of it. The strength and purity of his home 
affections, so deep and undisturbed, entered into all that he thought and sang. 
Herein may be said to have lain the heart of " central peace " that sustained 
the fabric of his life and poetry. 

The foregoing Sketch is mainly condensed from Professor J. C. Shairp's 
admirable paper on Wordsworth in his Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. It 
seems needful to add a few particulars touching the poet's subsequent life. To 
the volumes of poetry already mentioned, others were added from time to time, 
— as, The Excursion, \n 1814; The White Dos of Rylstone, in 1815; Peter Bell, 
and The Waggoner, in 1819; The River Duddon and other Poems, in 1820; 
Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, and Ecclesiastical Sonnets, in 1822 ; Yar- 
row Revisited, and other Poems, in 1835. After the latter date, he wrote but little 
poetry, chiefly sonnets, which were subsequently distributed among the earlier 
pieces. Towards the close of his life, he gathei-ed together all the poems of his 
then in print that he cared to preserve, gave them a careful revision, (in fact he 
was always revising them,} rearranged them, and set them forth in a collected 
edition. The Prelude, though written before The Excursion, was not published 
till after his death. 

About the time of his settlement at Rydal Mount, Wordsworth was appointed 
distributor of stamps for Westmoreland county. This office brought him a 
considerable addition of income ; in fact, secured him an easy competence ; 
while its conditions were such as to disburden him of private cares, Avithout 
oppressing him with public ones ; thus releasing him from anxiety, and at the 
same time leaving his freedom and leisure unimpaired. From this time onward 
his life flowed in an even, tranquil course : his whole heart was in his home, his 
whole soul in his high calling as a poet : every year brought him increasing 
returns of honour and gratitude from those who had deeply felt the blessing of 
his genius and wisdom : his great, simple, earnest mind had all that it needed 
for delight and nourishment in the grand and lovely forms and aspects of 
Nature that waited on his steps, and in the widening circle of friends whom he 
had himself inspired with congenial thoughts and congenial tastes : so that he 
was conducted to an old age as beautiful and free, perhaps, as ever fell to the 
lot of any human being. 

On the death of Southey, in March, 1843, the office of Poet Laureate, thus 
made vacant, was, with the full approval of the Queen, offered to Wordsworth. 
He at first declined the honour on the ground of his being too far advanced in 
age to undertake the duties of the office. This brought him a special letter 
from Sir Robert Peel, then Prime Minister, urging his acceptance, and_ assur- 
ing him that " the offer was made, not for the purpose of imposing on liim any 
onerous or disagreeable duties, but in order to pay him that tribute of respect 
which was justly due to the first of living poets." With this understanding, 
he accepted the appointment. The office was, indeed, well bestowed : old as 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 9 

he was, and past bearing further fruit of song, the laureate wreath of England 
surely never invested worthier brows. 

In July, 1847, the poet's only daughter, Dora, then Mrs. Quillinan, died. 
The event was no surprise either to herself or to others : knowing her end was 
near for some time before it came, she looked at it calmly, and met it as became 
a soul that had lived in the presence of so much moral beauty. Still the afflic- 
tion bore hard upon her aged parents, and would probably have been too much 
for them, but that they had the full strength of Christian faith to console and 
sustain them. On the 23d day of April, 1850, the anniversary of Shake- 
speare's birth, and also of his death, Wordsworth himself died, his age being 
eighty years and sixteen days. He was buried, according to his declared wish, 
beside his children in Grasmere churchyard. Mrs. Wordsworth survived her 
husband some three years, and was then gathered tohis side. 

For a long series of years Wordsworth's poetry had decidedly up-hill work, 
and made its way very slowly. He can hardly be said even to have found the 
"fit audience, though few:" he had to educate his own audience, and that, 
too, from the bottom upwards ; had to develop the faculties for understanding 
him, and create the taste to enjoy him. The critical law-givers of the time, or 
those who passed for such, were nearly all down upon him from the first : the 
Edinburgh Review, whose verdict was then well-nigh omnipotent with the read- 
ing public, could see neither truth nor beauty in his works, and had nothing 
but obloquy and ridicule to bestow upon them ; in fact all the dogs of criticism, 
big and little, " Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart," joined in barking against him, 
and kept up their miserable chorus of vituperation, till they were fairly shamed 
out of it by a new generation of thinkers and writers. 

Through this long pelting of detraction the poet stood unmoved ; it seems 
indeed not to have hurt so much as his patience. Writing, in May, 1807, to a 
very dear friend, who had expressed great uneasiness on his account, he has 
the following : " It is impossible that any expectations can be lower than mine 
concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what is called the 
public. I do not here take into consideration the envy and malevolence, and 
all the bad passions whicl^ always stand in the way of a work of any merit 
from a living poet, but merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in 
which all worldlings, of every rank and situation, must be enveloped, with 
respect to the thoughts, feelings, and images on which the life of my poems 
depends. It is an awful ttuth, that there neither is, nor can be, any genuine 
enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live, 
or wish to live, in the broad light of the world, — among those who either are, 
or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in society. This is a 
truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my 
sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for 
God."^ 

Again, wishing to make his friend as easy-hearted as himself on the subject, 
he continues thus : " Trouble not yourself upon their present reception ; of 
what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny ? To console 
the afflicted ; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier ; to 
teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, to feel, and 
therefore to become moi-e actively and securely virtuous ; — this is their office, 
which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after, we (that is, all that is 
mortal in us) are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware how far it would 
seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when I speak in this way. I am 
not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably the majoi'ity of 
those poems would appear to very respectable jsersons. I do not mean London 
wits and witlings, for these have too many foul passions about them to be 
respectable, even if they had more intellect than the benign laws of Providence 
will allow to such a heartless existence as theirs ; but grave, kindly-natured, 
worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could. I hope that these vol 



10 WORDSWORTH : 

umes are not without some recommendations, even for readers of this class ; 
but their ima.yination has slept ; and tlie voice which is the voice of my poetry, 
without imaj^ination, cannot be heard." 

I must quote one passage more, where the poet is referring to that portion 
of his contemporaries who were called the reading public : " Be assured that 
the decision of these persons has nothing to do with the question ; they are 
altogether incompetent judges. These people, in the senseless hurry of their 
idle lives, do not read books ; they merely snatch a glance at them, that they 
may talk about them. And^even if this were not so, never forget what, I 
believe, was observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, 
in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which 
he is to be relished ; he must teach the art by which he is to be seen ; this, in 
a certain degree, even to all persons, however wise and pure may be their lives, 
and however unvitiated their taste. But for those who dip into books in order 
to give an opinion of them, or talk about them to take up an opinion, — for 
this multitude of unhappy, and misguided, and misguiding beings, an entire 
regeneration must be produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of 
time. To conclude, my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as 
insensible as iron to these petty stings ; and, after what I have said, I am sure 
yours will be the same. I doubt not you will share with me an invincible con- 
tidence that my writings will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human 
nature and society wherever found ; and that they will, in their degree, be effi- 
cacious in making men wiser, better, and happier." 

A great deal has been written upon Wordsworth ; for, in truth, no one who 
has once been fairly touched by his power , or caught the spirit of his poetry, 
can ever shake off its influence, or k'S^pTrdm thinking about it. Probably the 
most searching and most deeply-considered criticism that his works have 
called forth is found in Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, written while the 
tempest of detraction against Wordsworth was in full blast. At the close of 
that masterly review, — the best piece of poetical criticism, I suspect, in the 
language, — Coleridge sums up the merits of his friend's poetry as follows : 

" First : An austere purity of language, both grammatically and logically ; 
in short, a perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning. In poetry, in 
which every line, every phrase, may pass the ordeal of deliberation and delib- 
erate choice, it is possible, and barely possible, to attain that ultimatum which 
I have ventured to propose as the infallible test of a blameless style ; namely, 
its untranslatableness in words of the same language, without injury to the 
meaning. Be it observed, however, that I include in the meaning of a word, not 
only its correspondent object, but likewise all the associations which it recalls. 
In poetry it is practicable to preserve the diction uncorrupted by the affecta- 
tions and misappropriations which promiscuous authorship, and reading, not 
promiscuous only because it is disproportionally conversant with the composi- 
tions of the day, have rendered general. Yet, even to the poet, composing in his 
own province, it is an arduous Avork; and, as the result and pledge of a watch- 
ful good sense, of fine and luminous distinction, and of complete self-possession, 
may justly claim all the honour which belongs to an attainment equally ditli- 
cult and Valuable, and the more valuable for being rare. 

" The second characteristic excellence of Mr. Wordsworth's works is a corre- 
spondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and sentiments, — won, not from 
books, but from the poet's own meditative observation. They are^-es/i, and 
have the dew upon them. His Muse, at least when in her strength of wing, 
and Avhcn she hovers aloft in her proper element, 

Makes audible a linkfed lay of truth, 

Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 

Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes. 

" Both in respect of this and of the former excellence, Mr. Wordsworth 
strikingly resembles Samuel Daniel, one of the golden writers of our golden 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 11 

Elizabethan age, now most causelessly neglected ; — Samuel Daniel, whose dic- 
tion bears no mark of time, no distinction of age ; which has been, and, as 
long as our language shall last, will be, so far the language of to-day and for 
ever, as that it is more intelligible to us than the transitory fashions of our own 
particular age. A similar praise is due to his sentiments. No frequency of 
perusal can deprive them of their freshness. For though they are brought into 
the full day-light of every reader's comprehension, yet are they drawn up from 
depths which few in any age are privileged to visit, into which few in any age 
have courage or inclination to descend. If Mr. Wordsworth is not, equally 
with Daniel, alike intelligible to all readers of average understanding in all 
passages of his works, the comparative difficulty does not arise from the greater 
impurity of the ore, but from the nature and uses of the metal. A poem is not 
necessarily obscure, because it does not aim to be popular. It is enough, if a 
work be perspicuous to those for whom it is written, and ' fit audience find, 
though few.' 

"Third, —and wherein he soars far above Daniel: — The sinewy strength 
and originality of single lines and paragraphs ; the frequent cuHosa felicitas of 
his diction. This beauty, and as eminently characteristic of Wordsworth's 
poetry, his rudest assailants have felt themselves compelled to acknoAvledge 
and admire. 

" Fourth : The perfect truth of nature in his images and descriptions, as 
taken immediately from nature, and proving a long and genial intimacy with 
the very spirit which gives the physiognomic expression to all the works of 
nature. Like a green field reflected in a calm and perfectly transparent lake, 
the image is distinguished from the reality only by its greater softness and lus- 
tre. Like the moisture or the polish on a pebble, genius neither distorts nor 
false-colours its objects ; but, on the contrary, brings out many a vein and 
many a tint which escape the eye of common observation, thus raising to the 
rank of gems what had been often kicked away by the hurrying foot of the 
traveller on the high road of custom. 

" Fifth : A meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtile thought with sensibil- 
ity ; a sympathy with man as man ; the sympathy indeed of a contemplator, rather 
than a fellow-sufferer or co-mate, {spectator haud particeps,) but of a contempla- 
tor from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the nature ; 
no injuries of wind or weather, of toil, or even of ignorance, wholly disguise 
the human face divine. The superscription and the image of the Creator re- 
main legible to him under the dark lines with which guilt or calamity had can- 
celled or cross-barred it. Here the man and the poet lose and find themselves 
in each other, the one as glorified, the latter as substantiated. In this mild and 
philosophic pathos, Wordsworth appears to me without a compeer. Such he 
is : so he writes. 

" Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of Imaginatiox 
in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play of Fancy, Words- 
worth, to my feelings, is not always graceful, and is sometimes recondite. The 
likeness is occasionally too strange, or demands too peculiar a point of view, or 
is such as appears the creature of predetermined research, rather than sponta- 
neovis presentation. Indeed his fancy seldom displays itself as mere and un- 
modified fancy. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all modern 
writers to Shakespeare and Milton ; and yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed 
and his own. To employ his own words, which are at once an instance and an 
illustration, he does indeed to all thoughts and to all objects 

'add the gleam, 
, The light that never was on sea or land, 

The consecration and the poet's dream.' " 

I must add, that Wordsworth was far from being an overweening truster in 
his own genius. On the contraiy, he was a ihost earnest, careful, painstaking 



12 woedswoeth: sketch of his life. 

workman ; was never weary of retouching his poems, and spared no labour, 
that he might lift and chasten them into fair accordance with his own ideas. 
And, with all his sturdy self-reliance, — a self-reliance that belongs to all genius 
of a high order, — he had a spirit of willing deference to thoughtful and genial 
criticism on his poems. All this was because in his view the office of poet was 
invested with religious consecration : he regarded his calling as divine, his art 
as a sacred thing ; and to treat it as a mere plaything, or to use it for any self- 
€nds, was to him nothing less than downright profanation. On this point he 
has left the following markworthy passage : " I can say without vanity, that I 
have bestowed great pains on my style, full as much as any of my contempo- 
raries have done on theirs. I yield to none in love for my art. I therefore labour 
at it with reverence, affection, and industry. My main endeavour, as to style, 
has been that my poems should be written in pure intelligibleEnglish." 

Again, he speaks of the poet's office in the following high strain : " The 
Sun Avas personified by the ancients as a charioteer driving four fiery steeds 
over the vault of heaven ; and this solar charioteer was called Phoebus, or 
Apollo, and was regarded as the god of poetry, of prophecy, and of medicine. 
Phcebus combined all these characters. And every poet has a similar mission 
on Earth : he must also be a Phoebus in his own way ; he must diffuse health 
and light ; he must prophesy to his generation ; he must teach the present age 
by counselling with the future ; he must plead for jposterity ; and he must imi- 
tate Phoebus in guiding and governing all his faculties, fiery steeds though they 
be, with the most exact precision, lest, instead of being a Phoebus, he prove a 
Phaeton, and set the world on fire, and be hurled from his car : he must rein-in 
his fancy, and temper his imagination, with the control and direction of sound 
reason, and drive on in the right track with a steady hand." 

In conclusion : Wordsworth is now generally admitted to take rank as one 
of the five great chiefs of English song ; the others being, of course, Chaucer, 
Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. As for Shakespeare, he stands altogether 
apart, in the solitude of his own unchallenged superiority, unapproached, and 
unapproachable ; so that no one should think of trying any other poet by his 
measure. As to the others, it is not yet time to settle Wordsworth's comparative 
merits. To pronounce him as great a poet as Milton, would probably be rash : 
but I make bold to affirm that he is more original than Milton ; in fact, the 
most original of all English poets, with the single exception of Shakespeai-e. 
And a long experience has fully satisfied me that, next after Shakespeare, he is 
the best of them all for use as a text-book in school : and this, because, with 
fair handling, he kindles a purer, deeper, stronger enthusiasm, and penetrates 
the mind with a moi-e potent and more enduring charm. He makes the world 
appear a more beautiful and happier place, human life a nobler and diviner 
thing ; and wherever the taste has once been set to him, wherever his power 
has once made any thing of a lodgment, the person never outgrows the love of 
him, nor thinks of parting company with him. His poems have now been my 
inseparable companion for some thirty-five years; and every year has made 
them dearer to my heart; every year has added to my reverence for their 
author, and to my gratitude for the unspeakable benediction they have been to 
me. If I can do even a little towards diffusing a knowledge and love of this 
precious inheritance, I shall think I have not lived altogether in vain. 



POEMS 

BY 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



RUTH. 

When Ruth was left half desolate, 
Her Father took another Mate ; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her OAvn will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 
In thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 
And music from that pipe could draw 
Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green. 
As if she from her birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seem'd to live ; her thoughts her own : 

Herself her own delight; 

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 

And, passing thus the live-long day, 

She gi-ew to woman's height. 

There came a youth from Georgia's shore ; 

A military casque he wore. 

With splendid feathers drest; 

He brought them from tlie Cherokees : 

The feathers nodded in the breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung ; 
But no 1 he spake the English tongue, 
And bore a soldier's name; 
And, when America was free 



1 Refen-ing, perhaps, to the cotton- 
plant; which keeps putting forth new 
flowers through a period of several weeks; 
the blossom being at first a pure and per- 



From battle and from jeopardy, 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 

In finest tones the Youth could speak: 

While he was yet a boy, 

The Moon, the glory of the Sun, 

And streams that munnur as they run, 

Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely youth I I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play. 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought. 
And with him many tales he brought 
Of pleasure and of fear ; 
Suclx tales as told to any maid 
By such a youth, in the green shade, 
Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls,— a happy rout ! — 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town. 

To gather strawberries all day long; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly change 
Their blossoms, thro' a boundless range 
Of intei-mingling hues : 
With budding, fading, faded flowers. 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews.^ 



feet Avhite, and then gradually passing 
through every variety of shade to a dark 
brown. 



14 



WORDSWORTH. 



He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high over head ; 
The cypress and her spire ; 
Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
To set the hills on fli-e. 

The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake, 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clouds. 

" How pleasant," then he said, " it were 

A tisher or a hunter there, 

In sunshine or in shade, 

To wander with an easy mind ; 

And build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade I 

What days and what bright years ! Ah 

Our life were life indeed, with thee [me I 

So pass'd in quiet bliss ; 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That w^e were in a world of woe. 

On such an earth as this 1 " 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts about a father's love : 
" For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties. 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the Sun. 

Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear; 

Or run , my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer I 

Belovfed Ruth I "—No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
•A solitary tear: 

She thought again,— and did .agree 
With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the flying deer. 

"And now, as fitting is and right. 
We in the church our faithr will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 



Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That on those lonesome floods. 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 



But, as you have before been told, 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
And, with his dancing crest. 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a tropic sky. 

Might weU. be dangerous food 

For him, a youth to whom was given 

So much of Earth, so much of Heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Ii-regular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and gorgeou* flowers; 
The breezes their own languor lent; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those favour'd bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent: 
For passions link'd to forms so fair 
And stately needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
With men to whom no better law 
Nor better lile was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived. 
Those wild men's vices he i-eceived. 
And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impair'd, and he became 
The slave of low desires; 
A Man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 



RUTH. 



15 



And jet he with no feign'd delight 
Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night 
Had loved her, night and morn : 
What could he less than love a Maid 
Whose heart with so much nature play'd : 
So kind and so forlorn I 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
" O Kuth, I have been worse than dead; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
Encompass'd me on every side 
When I, in confidence and pi'ide. 
Had cross'd th' Atlantic main. 

Before me shone a glorious world. 
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd 
To music suddenly : 
I look'd upon those hills and plains, 
And seem'd as if let loose from chains. 
To live at liberty.^ 

No more of this ; for now, by thee, 
Dear Ruth, more happily set free, 
With nobler zeal I burn ; 
My soul from darkness is released. 
Like the whole sky when to the East 
The morning doth return." 

Full soon that better mind was gone; 
Xo hope, no wish remain'd, not one, — 
They stirr'd him now no more : 
New objects did new pleasure give, 
And once again he wish'd to live 
As lawless as before. 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared. 
They for the voyage were prepared. 
And went to the sea-shore ; 
But, when they thither came, the Youth 
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth I — Such pains she 
That she in half a year was mad, [had. 
And in a prison housed; 
And there, Avith many a doleful song 
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
She feai-fully caroused. 



2 In this beautiful stanza, the author 
expresses the enthusiastic gladness with 
which he had hhiiself hailed the French 
Revolution of 1789, which he conlldeiitlj^ 
regarded as the dawn of a new era of free- 
dom and happiness in the world. It 



Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
Nor Avanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
Nor pastimes of the May : 
They all were with her in her cell; 
And a clear brook Avith cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her pain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
But of the Vagi-aut none took thought ; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. 

Among the fields she breathed again ; 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her soxtow, rocks and pools, 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves, — she loved them still, 

Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 

A Bam her winter bed supplies ; 

But, till the warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 

(And all do in this tale agree,) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray f 

And Ruth will, long before her day. 

Be broken down and old : 

Sore aches she needs must have, but less 

Of mind than body's wretcliedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is prest by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a road-side ; 
And there she begs at one steep place 
Whei'e up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travellers ride. 



seemed to him that in the course and pro- 
gress of this event all the ancient holdings 
of oppression and Avrong were to disap- 
pear, and a golden age of universal peace 
to succeed. 



16 



WORDSWORTH. 



That oatea pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away ; hut with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 
Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild;— 
Such small machineiy had she tum'd 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, 
A young and happy Child. 

Farewell I and when thy days are told. 

Ill-fated Ruth, in hallo w'd mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be; 

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. [1799. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
PART I, 

Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 

Like harebells bathed in dew; 
Of cheek that with carnation vies, 

And veins of violet hue : 
Earth Avants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers ; 
Tea, to the stars, if they were born 

For seasons and for hours. 

Through ISIoscow's gates, with gold un- 

Stepp'd One at dead of night, [barr'd, 
Whom such high beauty could not guard 

From meditated blight ; 
By stealth she pass'd, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopp'd, till in the dappling East 

Appear'd unwelcome dawn. 

Seven days she lurk'd in brake and field. 

Seven nights her course renew'd, 
Sustain'd by what her scrip might yield, 

Or berries of the wood; 
At length in darkness travelling on, 

When lowly doors were shut. 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut. 

" To put your love to dangerous proof 
I come," said she, " from far; 



For I have left my Father^s roof, 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the Matron give, 

No second look she cast. 
But hung upon the Fugitive, 

Embracing and embraced. 

She led the Lady to a seat 

Beside the glimmei-ing flre, 
Bathed duteously her wayworn feet. 

Prevented 3 each desire : — 
The cricket chii-p'd, the house-dog dozed. 

And on that simple bed. 
Where she in childhood had reposed, 

Now rests her weary head. 

When she, whose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain, pine or thorn. 
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 

Who comforts the forlorn; 
While over her the Matron bent 

Sleep seal'd her eyes, and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent. 

And trouble from the souL 

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at mora. 

And soon again was dight 
In those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous flight; 
And " O belovfed Nurse," she said, 

" My thanks with silent tears 
Have unto Heaven and you been paid : 

Now listen to ray fears I 

Have you forgot " (and here she smiled) 

" The babbling flatteries 
You lavish'd on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees ? 
I was your lambkin, and your bird, 

Your star, your gem, your flower; 
Light words, that were more lightly heard 

In many a cloudless hour I 

The blossom you so fondly praised 

Is come to bitter fruit; 
A mighty One upon me gazed; 

I spurn'd his lawless suit. 
And must be hidden from his wrath : 

You, Foster-father dear, 
WiU guide me in my forward path : 

I may not tarry here I 



3 Prevented in the old sense of antici- 
pated. The usage is frequent in Shake- 
speare, as also in the Bible and Prayer- 
Book. 



THE RUSSIAN" FUGITIVE. 



17 



I cannot bring to utter woe 

Your proved fidelity." — 
" Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so 1 

For you we both would die." — 
" Nay, nay, I come with semblance feign'd 

And cheek embrown'd by ait ; 
Yet, being inwardly unstain'd, 

With courage will depart." 

•'But whitherwould you, could you, flee?* 

A poor Man's counsel take ; 
The Holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake : 
Eest, shielded by our Lady-s grace, 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to a safe abiding-place, 

Where never foot doth tread." 



PART II. 

The dwelling of this faithful pair 

In a straggling village stood,— 
For One who breathed unquiet air 

A dangerous neighbourhood; 
But wide around lay forest ground 

With thickets rough and blind; 
And pine-trees made a heavy shade 

Impervious to the wind. 

And there, sequester'd from the sight, 

Was spread a treacherous swamp. 
On which the noonday Sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp ; 
And midway in th' unsafe morass 

A single Island rose 
Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 

Adorn'd, and shady boughs. 

The Woodman knew —for such the craft 

This Russian vassal plied— 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer, there was tried : 
A sanctuary seem'd the spot 

From all intrusion free ; 
And there he plann'd an artful Cot 

For pei-fect secrecy. 

With earnest pains uncheck'd by dread 
Of Power's far- stretching hand, 



4 The meaning probably is, " Whither 
would you flee, z/ you could ? " 



The bold good Man his labour sped 

At nature's pure command; 
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 

While, in a hollow nook, 
She moulds her sight-eluding den 

Above a murmuring brook. 

His task accomplish'd to his mind, 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 

Their solitary way; 
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pace from mUe to mile, 
TiU they have cross'd the quaking marsh, 

And reach'd the lonely Isle. 

The Sun above the pine-trees show'd 

A bright and cheerful face; 
And Ina look'd for her abode, 

The promised hiding-place : 
She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; 

No threshold could be seen, 
Nor roof, nor window ; — all seem'd wild 

As it had ever been. 

Advancing, you might guess an hour, 

The front with such nice care 
Is mask'd, " if house it be ^ or bower," 

But in they enter'd are : 
As shaggy as were wall and roof 

With branches intertwined, 
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 

And delicately lined : 

And hearth was there, and maple dish, 

And cups in seemly rows, 
And couch, — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose ; 
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supplied. 

No queen, before a shouting crowd. 

Led on in bridal state, 
E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 

Entering her palace gate ; 
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell. 

No saintly anchoress 
E'er took possession of her cell 

With deeper thankfulness. 



5 Some obscurity here, perhaps; but 
the word if is construed with guess, and 
is equivalent to ichether; the sense thus 
being, " you might guess an hour whether 
it be a house," &c. 



18 



WORDSWOETH. 



••Father of all, upon Thy care 

And mercy am I thrown ; 
Be Thou my safeguard!" such her prayer 

When she was left alone, 
Kneeling amid the wilderness 

When joy had pass'd away, 
And smiles, fond efforts of distress 

To hide what they betray ! • 

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 

Diffused through form and face, 
Resolves devotedly serene; 

That monumental grace 
Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 

That Reason should control ; 
And shows in the untrembling frame 

A statue of the soul. 



PART ni. 

'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 

That Phoebus wont to wear 
The leaves of any pleasant tree 

Around his golden hair; 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 

Of his imperious love, 
At her own pray ertransform'd, took root, 

A laurel in the grove. 

Then did the Penitent adorn 

His brow with laurel green; 
And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 

No meaner leaf was seen ; 
And poets sage, through every age. 

About their temples wound [Gods, 

The bay ; and conquerors thank'd the 

With laurel chaplets crown'd.6 

Into the mists of fabling Time 

So far runs back the praise 
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways ; 
That scorns temptation; power defies 

Where mutual love is not; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 

When life would be a blot. 

To this fair Votaress, a fate 
More mild doth Heaven ordain 



6 It may be well to note that hay and 
laurel mean the same thing. Wordsworth 
probably had in mind a passage of The 
Faerie Queene, i. 1, 9 : " The laurell, meed 
of mightie couquerours and poets sage." 



Upon her Island desolate ; 

And words, not breathed in vain, 
Slight tell what intercourse she found. 

Her silence to endear; [ground 

What birds she tamed, what flowers the 

Sent forth, her peace to cheer. 

To one mute Presence, above all, 

Her soothed affections clung, 
A picture on the cabin wall 

By Russian usage hung, ~ 
The Mother-maid, whose countenance 
bright 

With love abridged the day; 
And, communed with by taper light, 

Chased spectral fears away. 

And, oft as either Guardian came, 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shame, 

So high their hearts would beat ; 
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of Spring. 

But, when she of her Parents thought, 

The pang was hard to bear; 
And, if with all things not enwrought, 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove ; 
Too much th' heroic Daughter fear'd 

The weakness of their love. 

Dark is the past to them, and dark 

The future still must be. 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer sea; 
Or gentle Nature close her eyes, 

And set her Spirit free 
From the altar of this sacrifice, 

In vestal purity. 

Yet, when above the forest glooms 

The white swans southward pass'd, 
High as the pitch of their swift plumes 

Her fancy rode the blast ; 
And bore her toward the fields of France, 

Her Father's native land, 
To mingle in the rustic dance, 

The happiest of the bandl 

Of those belov6d fields she oft 
Had heard her Father tell, 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 



19 



In phrase that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely cell ; 
She saw th' hereditary bowers, 

She heard th' ancestral stream ; 
The Kremlin and its haughty towers 

Forgotten like a dream ! 



The ever-changing Moon had traced 

Twelve times her monthly round, 
When through the unfrequented Waste 

Was heard a startling sound; 
A shout thrice sent from one who chased 

At speed a wounded deer, 
Bounding through branches interlaced, 

And where the wood was clear. 

The fainting creature took the marsh. 

And toward the Island fled, 
While plovers scream'd with tumult hai-sh 

Above his antler'd head : 
This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel; 
The desperate deer rush'd on, and near 

The tangled covert fell. 

Across the marsh, the game in view, 

The Hunter foUow'd fast. 
Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast; 
Then, resting on her upright mind, 

Came forth the Maid : "In me 
Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 

Pursued by destiny ! 

From your deportment. Sir, I deem 

That you have worn a sword. 
And will not hold in light esteem 

A suffering woman's Avord : 
There is my covert, there perchance 

I might have lain conceal'd. 
My fortunes hid, my countenance 

Not even to you reveal'd. 

Tears might be shed, and I might pray. 

Crouching and terrified. 
That what has been unveil'd to-daj^ 

You would in mystery hide ; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God in Heaven: attend, be just; 

This ask I, and no more. 

I speak not of the Winter's cold. 
For Summer's heat exchanged. 



Wliile I have lodged in this rough hold. 

From social life estranged; 
Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 

High Heaven is my defence ; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured Innocence. 

From Moscow to the WUdemess 

It was my choice to come. 
Lest virtue should be harbourless. 

And honour want a home ; 
And happy were I, if the Czar 

Retain his laAvless will. 
To end life here like this poor deer, 

Or a lamb on a green hill." 

" Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 

" From Gallic parents sprung, 
Wliose vanishing was rumour'd wide. 

Sad theme for eveiy tongue ? 
Wlio foil'd an Emperor's eager quest? 

You, Lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair !" 

But wonder, pity, soon were quell'd; 

And in her face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil befrsveen : 
He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
The passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 

" Such bounty is no gift of chance," 

Exclaim'd he; "righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance. 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-wiU'd; 
But, when the Lady Catherine ^ pleads, 

His violence is still'd. 

" Leave open to my wish the course. 

And I to her will go ; 
From that humane and heavenly source. 

Good, only good, can flow." — 
Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 

Was eager to depart, 
Though question follow'd question, dear 

To the Maiden's filial heart. 

Light was his step, — his hopes, more light. 
Kept pace with his desires; 



7 This was the famous lady then bear- 
ing that name as the acknowledged wife 
of Peter the Great. 



20 



WORDSWORTH. 



And the fifth morning gave him sight 
Of Moscow's glittering spires. 

He sued : — heart-smitten by the wi'ong, 
To the lorn Fugitive 

The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
As sovereign power could give. 

O more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain, 
And joy's excess produced a fear 

Of something void and vain ; 
•Twas when the Parents, who had mourn'd 

So long the lost as dead, 
Beheld their only Child retum'd. 

The household floor to tread. 

Soon gratitude gave way to love 

Within the Maiden's breast : 
Deliver'd and Deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest; 
Meek Catherine had her own reward; 

The Czar bestow'd a dower; 
And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour. 

Flowers strew'd the ground; the nuptial 

Was held with costly state ; [feast 

And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 

The Foster-parents sate : 
Encouraged by th' imperial eye. 

They shrank not into shade; 
Great was their bliss, the honour hign 

To them and nature paid ! [1830. 



THE WATERFALL AND THE EG- 
LANTINE. 

"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 

Exclaim'd an angry Voice, 

" Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 

Thus threaten'd a poor Briar-rose, 

That, all bespatter'd with his foam, 

And dancing high and dancing low. 

Was living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. 

"Dost thou presume my course to block? 

Off off! or, puny Thing, 

I'll hurl thee headlong with the I'ock 

To which thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong; 

The patient Briar suffer'd long. 

Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past; 



But, seeing no relief, at last 
He ventured to reply. 

" Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not; 

Why should we dwell in strife? 

We who in this seitjuester'd spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirr'd me on my rocky bed, — 

What pleasure thro' my veins you spread I 

The Summer long, from day to day, 

My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; 

Nor was it conamon gratitude 

That did your cares repay. 

When Spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 

That gentle days were nigh : 

And in the sultry summer hours 

I shelter'd you Avith leaves and flowers; 

And in my leaves — now shed and gone — 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 

But now proud thoughts are in your 
What gi'ief is mine you see : [breast; 

Ah, would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be ! 
Though of both leaf and flower bereft. 
Some ornaments to me ax'e left, — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way, 
Would deck you many a winter day, 
A happy Eglantine ! " 

What more he said I cannot tell : 

The Torrent down the rocky dell 

Came thundering loud and fast; 

I listen'd, nor aught else could hear; 

The Briar quaked, — and much I fear 

Those accents were his last. [1800. 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
A PASTOKAL. 

His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills ; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One Winter's night, when thro' the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andi-ew hold; 

And, while the rest, a ruddy quire. 

Were seated round their blazing fire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told. 



THE OAK AKD THE BROOM. 



2] 



•' I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
As eves tempest beat; 
Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
A Broom out of its feet. 
The time was March, a cheerful noon, — 
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
Breathed gently from the warm South- 
When, in a voice sedate with age, [west ; 
This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
His neighbour thus address'd : 

• Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, 
Along this mountain's edge, [day. 

The Frost hath wrought both night and 
Wedge driving after wedge. 
Look up ! and think, above your head 
What trouble, surely, will be bred; 
Last night I heard a crash, —'tis true, 
The splinters took another road, — 
I see them yonder; — what a load 
For such a Thing as you ! 

You are preparing, as before. 

To deck your slender shape; 

And yet, just three years back— no more,— 

You had a strange escape : 

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 

It thunder'd down, with fire and smoke. 

And hitherward pursued its way; 

This ponderous block was caught by me, 

And o'er your head, as you may see, 

'Tis hanging to this day. 

\f breeze or bird to this rough steep 

Your kind's first seed did bear, 

The breeze had better been asleep. 

The bird caught in a snare : 

For you and your green twigs decoy 

The little witless shepherd-boy 

To come and slumber in your bower; 

And, trust me, on some sultry noon, 

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon ! 

Will perish in one hoiu'. 

From me this friendly warning take,' — 

The Broom l:>egan to doze, 

And thus, to keep herself awake. 

Did gently interpose : 

' My thanks for your discourse are due ; 

That more than what you say is true, 

I know, and I have known it long : 

Frail is the bond by whicli we hold 

Om- being, whether young or old. 

Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 



Disasters, do the best we can. 

Will reach both great and small; 

And he is oft the wisest man. 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to ro-nju? 

This spot is my paternal home, 

It is my pleasant heritage; 

My father many a happy year 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attain'd a good old age. 

Even such as his may be my lot. 

What cause have I to havmt 

My heart with ten*ors ? Am I not 

In truth a favour'd plant? 

On me such bounty Summer pours. 

That I am cover'd o'er with flowers ; 

And, when the Frost is in the sky. 

My branches are so fresh and gay 

That you might look at me and say, 

This Plant can never die. 

The butterfly, aU green and gold, 

To me hath olten flown. 

Here in my blossoms to behold 

Wings lovely as his own : 

When grass is chiU with rain or dew. 

Beneath my shade the mother-ewe 

Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 

The love they to each other make. 

And the sweet joy which they partake. 

It is a joy to me.' 

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light: 
The Broom might have pursued 
Her speech, until the stars of night 
Their journey had renew'd; 
But in the branches of the oak 
Two ravens now began to croak 
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
And to her own green bower the breeze 
That instant brought two stripling bees, 
To rest or murmur there. 

One night, my Children, from the Xorth 

There came a furious blast; 

At break of day I ventiu-ed forth, 

And near the clifi" I pass'd. 

The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 

^Vnd struck Mm with a mighty stroke, 

And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away; 

And, in one hospitable cleft, 

The little careless Broom was left, 

To live for many a day." [1800. 



22 



WORDSWORTH. 



TO THE DAISY. 

In yoiith from rock to rock I Avent, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 

Most pleased when most uneasy; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake. 
And gladly Nature's love partake, 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy 1 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole summer- fields are thine hy right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy AVight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and hands, a morrice train, 
Thou gi-eet'st the traveller in the lane, 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing daunted 
Nor grieved if thou he set at nought : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling : 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim. 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The Poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art,— a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
Som.e memory that had taken flight; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 

Or stray invention. 



If stately passions In me bum, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheei-ful Flower, my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 

And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, Avhenever thou art met, 

To thee am owing; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense; 
A happy, genial influence. 
Coming one knows not how nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year, that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
As ready to salute the Sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise th'ou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favourite. [1802. 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
With little here to do or see 
Of things that in the gi-eat world be, 
Daisy, again I talk to thee; 

For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming common-place 
Of Nature, Avith that homely face, 
And yet Avith something of a grace, 

Which Love makes for thee. 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes, 

Loose typos of things through all degrees 

Thoughts of thy raising: 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 

While I am gazing. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDIN^E. 



A nun demure of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies clrest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to thi-eaten and defy. 
That thought comes next,— and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold 

In fight to cover I 

I see thee glittering trom afar, — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ; 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest. 

Who shall reprove thee 1 

Bright Flower ! for by that name at last. 

When all my reveries are past, 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, — 

Sweet silent creature. 
That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature I [1805 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a Sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine.s 



8 The flower here celebrated is the 
Common Pilewort. In his notes on the 
poems, the author speaks thus : "It is re- 
markable that this flower, coming out so 
early in the Spring as it does, and so 
bright and beautiful, and in such profu- 
sion, should not have been noticed earlier 
in English verse. What adds much to the 
interest that attends it, is its habit of shut- 



Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star; 
Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty routl 
I'm as great as they, I trow. 
Since tlie day I found thee out, 
Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir. 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself; 
Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low. 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face I did not know; 
Thou hast now, go where I may. 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest, 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal; 
Telling tales about the Sun, 
When we've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood, 
Travel with the multitude : 
Never heed them; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers; 
But the thrifty cottager. 
Who stirs little out of doors, 
Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
Spring is coming, Thou art cornel 

Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood. 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood. 
In the lane ; — there's not a place. 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 

lU befall the yellow flowers. 
Children of the flaring hours ! 



ting itself up and opening out according 
to tiie degree of light and temperature of 
the air." — It may be observ^ed that Words- 
worth seldom, if ever, speaks of the fra- 
grance of flowers. Tlie pleasure from this 
source was denied to him : he had no sense 
of smcfl, — a deficiency that he himself re- 
gretted very much. 



24 



WOKDSWORTH. 



Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien : 
They have done as worldlings do. 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine ! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 

ni-requited upon Earth ; 

Herald of a mighty band, 

Of a joyous train ensuing, 

Serving at my heart's command. 

Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 

I will sing, as doth behove. 

Hymns in praise of what I love I [1803. 



TO THE SAIVIE FLOWER. 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 
When they lie about our feet : 
February last, my heart 
First at sight of thee was glad; 
All unheard of as thou art, 
Thou must needs, I think, have had. 
Celandine, and long ago, 
Praise of which I nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 
Whosoe'er the man might be, 
Who the first with pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 
Set the sign-board in a blaze. 
When the rising Sun he painted. 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of Winter's vanishing; 
And the children build their bowers, 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
All about with full-blown flowers, 
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold; 
With the proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have I sigh'd to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure, 
Sigh'd to think, I read a book 
Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
And thy arch and wily ways, 
And thy store of other praise. 

Blithe of heart, from week to week 
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; 



While the patient primrose sits 
Like a beggar in the cold, 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
When ye all are out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell. 
By what charm of sight or smell. 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Labouring for her waxen cells. 
Fondly settle upon Thee 
Pi-ized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side. 
By the season multiplied? 

Thou art not beyond the Moon, 
But a thing " beneath our shoon : ' 
Let the bold Discoverer thrid 
In his bark the polar sea; 
Rear who will a pyramid ; 
Praise it is enough for me. 
If there be but three or four 
Who will love my little Flower. 



[1803. 



THE REDBREAST. 

(^Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) 
Driven in by Atitumn's sharpening air 
From half-stripp'd woods and pastures 

bare, 
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 
Not like a beggar is he come, 
But enters as a look'd-for guest, 
Confiding in his niddy breast, 
As if it were a natural shield 
Charged with a blazon on the field, 
Due to that good and pious deed 
Of which we in the Ballad read.9 
But, pensive fancies putting by, 
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 
He plays th' expert ventriloquist; 
And, caught by glimpses now, now miss'd 
Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
If the soft voice he throws about 
Comes from within doors or without. 
Was ever such a sweet confusion, 
Sustain'd by delicate illusion ? 



9 Alluding to the old well-known bal- 
lad of The Children in the Wood; espe- 
cially the lines, — 

" No burial this pretty pair 

Of any man receiveSj 
Till Robin-redbreast piously 
Did cover them with leaves." 



THE EEDBEEAST. 



25 



lie's at your elbow, — to your feeling 
The notes are from the floor or ceiling; 
And there's a riddle to be gucss'd, 
Till you have mark'd his heaving chest 
And busy throat, whose sink and swell 
Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 
In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 

Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
Kseen, and with like pleasure stirr'd 
Conunend him when he's only heard. 
But small and fugitive our gain 
Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
With languid limbs and patient head 
Reposing on a lone sick-bed; i 
Where now she daily hears a strain 
That cheats her of too busy cares, 
Eases her pain, and helps her i^rayers. 
And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
The fever of that pale-faced Child; 
Now cooling, with his passing wing, 
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring ? 
Recalling now, with descant soft 
Shed round her pillow from aloft, 
Sweet thoughts of angels hoveriug nigh, 
And the invisible sympathy 
Of "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Blessing the bed she lies upon " ? 2 
And sometimes, just as listening ends 
In slumber, with the cadence blends 
A dream of that low- warbled hymn 
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone. 
When clouds gave way at dead of night 
And th' ancient church was filPd with 
Used to sing in. heavenly tone, [light, 



1 All our cats having been banished 
the house, it was soon Irequented by red- 
breasts. My sister, being then confined 
to her room by sickness, as, dear creature, 
she still is, had one that, without being 
caged, took up its abode with her, and at 
night used to perch upon a nail from 
which a picture had hung. It iised to sing 
and fan her face with its wings in a man- 
ner that was very touching. — The Author''s 
Notes. 

2 The poet tells us that these w^ords 
were part of a cliild's prayer, "still in 
general use tlu-ough the noi-thern coun- 
ties." My own childhood was fa'r.iliar 
witli the same prayer, two lines of it run- 
ning thtis : 

" JIatthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Bless the bed that 1 lie on." 



Above and round the sacred places 
They guard, with winged baby-faces. 
Thrice happy Creature, in all lands 
Nurtured by hospitable hands 1 
Free entrance to this cot has he, 
Entrance and exit both i/ct free; 
And, when the keen unruflled Aveather, 
That thus briugs man and bird together. 
Shall Avith its pleasantness be past, 
And casement closed and door made fast, 
To keep at bay the howling blast, 
He needs not fear the season's rage, 
For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
Whether the bird flit here or there, 
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair. 
Though some may frown and make a stir, 
To scare him as a trespasser. 
And he belike Avill flinch or start, 
Good friends he has to take his part; 
One chiefly, who with voice and look 
Pleads for him from the chinmey-nook, 
Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
Her long and vacant holiday; 
With images abotit her heart, 
Reflected from the years gone by, 
On human nature's second infancy. 

[1834. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail ! — 
There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbour and a hold ; 
^Vliere thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy. 
And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade, 
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
Shalt sliow lis how divine a thing 

A Woman maj' be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave ; 
But an old age serene and bright. 
And lovely as a Lapland night. 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. [1803. 



26 WOEDSWOKTH. 

HART-LEAP WELL. 

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in York- 
shire, and near the side of the road that leads from Kichmond to Askrigg. Its 
name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memoiy of which is preserved by 
the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following Poem, which mon- 
uments do now exist as I have there described them. 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
With the slow motion of a Summer's cloud. 
And now, as he approach 'd a vassal's door, 
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal heard. 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey ; 
Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar ; 
But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all ; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 

Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn. 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 



HART-LEAP WELL. 37 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeanM, 
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch 'd : 
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill, 
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
The waters of the spring were trembling still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
nSTever had living man such joyful lot! ) 
Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west, 
.And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 

And, climbing up the hill, (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent,) Sir Walter found 
Three several hoof -marks which the hunted Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot. 
And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
A place of love for damsels that are coy. 

A cunning artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 

And they who do make mention of the same. 

From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 

And, gallant Stag, to make thy praises known. 
Another monument shall here be raised ; 
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone. 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion with its arbour shall endure ; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! " 



28 WORDSWOETH 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. 
Soon did the Knight perform what he had said ; 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steer'd, 
A cup of stone received the living well ; 
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, 
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 

And, near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined ; 
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer days were long, 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time. 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 



PAET seco:n'd. 

The moving accident is not my trade ; 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Eichmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 

What this imported I could ill divine : 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head ; 
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
" Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'' 



HAKT-LEAP WELL. 29 

I look'd upon the liill both far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here. 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired. 
Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
And what this place might be I then inquired. 

The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told 
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.^ 
'^ A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! 
- But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood, — 
Some say that they are beeches, others elms, — 
These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood. 
The finest palace of a hundred realms! 

The arbour does its own condition tell ; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; 
But as to the great Lodge, you might as well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep. 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep. 
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 

Some say that here a murder has been done, 
And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part, 
I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 

What thoughts must through the creature's brain have 
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, [past ! 

Are but three bounds, — and look. Sir, at this last, — 
Master, it has been a cruel leap ! 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
And come and make his death-bed near the well. 

3 In his notes on this poem, which were dictated to a friend many years after the 
poem itself was written, the author has the following: "A peasant whom we met 
near the spot told us the story, so far as concerned the name of the well and the hart, 
and pointed out the stones." 



30 WORDSWORTH. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
Liill'd by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wander'd from his mother's side. 

In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 

The Sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 

So will it be, as I have often said. 

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." 

" Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine. 

The Being that is in the clouds and air, 
That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For th' unoffending creatures whom He loves. 

The pleasure-house is dust : behind, before. 
This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 

That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 

But, at the coming of the milder day. 

These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. 

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." [1800. 



MICHAEL: A PASTORAL POEM. 

If from the public way you turn your steps 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,* 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 

4 In the clialcct of Cumberland and Westmoreland, Ghyll is a short, and, for the 
most part, a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running through it. 



MICHAEL. 31 

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 
The mountains have all open'd out themselves, 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen ; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
But for one object which you might pass by. 
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ; 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story, unenrich'd with strange events. 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside. 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of Shepherds, dAvellers in the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved ; not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects led me on to feel 
For passions that were not my own, and think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 
Upon the forest-side in G-rasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learn'd the meaning of all winds. 
Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, He heard the South 



32 WOKDSWOETH. 

Make subterraneous music, like the noise 

Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 

The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 

Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 

" The winds are now devising work for me ! " 

And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 

The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 

Up to the mountains : he had been alone 

Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 

That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 

And grossly that man errs who should suppose 

That the green valleys and the streams and rocks 

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 

The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 

Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, 

Had fed or slielter'd, linking to such acts 

The certainty of honourable gain ; — 

Those fields, those hills (what could they less ?) had laid 

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 

The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been pass'd in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old. 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
The one of an inestimable worth. 
Made all their household. I may truly say 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
Tor endless industry. When day was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 



MICHAEL. 33 

J 

The Son and Father were come home, even then ! 

Their labour did not cease ; unless when all i 

Turn'd to the cleanly supper-board, and there, ] 

Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, 
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet, when the meal i 

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) ', 

And his old Father both betook themselves \ 

To such convenient work as might employ j 

Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card j 

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair | 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, \ 

Or other implement of house or field. j 

' Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, | 

That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection overbrow'd 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light s 

Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; j 

An aged utensil,^ which had perform'd \ 

Service beyond all others of its kind. j 

Early at evening did it burn, — and late, ■ 

Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, ; 

Which, going by from year to year, had found ! 

And left the couple neither gay perhaps i 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, j 

Living a life of eager industry. ; 

And now, when Luke had reach'd his eighteenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they sate, ■ 

Father and Son, while far into the night 

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, j 

Making the cottage through the silent hours I 

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. ] 

This light was famous in its neighbourhood, j 

And was a public symbol of the life J 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, I 

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground ! 

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, 
, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Eaise, 1 

And westward to the village near the lake ; ' 

And from this constant light, so regular I 

And so far seen, the House itself, by all j 

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, ] 

Both old and young, was named The Eveni]S"G Stae. '. 

3 The word t'ltensil is commonly pronounced hy the English poets with the chief 
accent on the first syllable. So in The Tempest, iii. 2: "He has brave utensils, — for 
80_ he calls them," &c. Also in Paradise Regained, iii. 336 : " And wagons, fraught 
with iktensils of war." '■. 



34 WOEDSWOKTH. 

Thus living on tlirongli sucli a length of years. 
The SJiepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michaers heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear, — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all, 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That Earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him. 
His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love. 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
Sate with a fetter'd sheep before him stretch'd 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade. 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the Sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd 
The OLiPPii^G-TEEE;* a name which yet it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the shade. 
With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd 
Upon the Child, if he disturb'd the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
With his OAvn hand a sapling, which he hoop'd 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shej^herd's staff. 
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equip t 

4 Clipping is used in the North of England for shearing. 



MICHAEL. 35 

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 

At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; 

And, to his office proinaturoly call'd, 

There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 

Something between a hindrance and a help; 

And for this cause not always, I believe, 

Eeceiving from his Father hire of praise; 

Though nouglit was left undone which staff, or voice. 

Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 
Not fearing toil nor length of weary ways. 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 
Feelings and emanations, — things which were 
Light to the Sun and music to the wind; 
And that the old Man's heart seem'd born again? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grcAV up : 
And now, when he had reacli'd his eighteenth year. 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life and ample means; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest u])on him; and old Michael now 
Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlook'd-for claim. 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
That any old man ever could have lost. 
As soon as he had arm'd himself with strength 
To look his trouble in the face, it seem'd 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
A portion of liis patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve; he thought again. 
And his heart fail'd him. " Isabel," said he, 
Two evenings after he liad heard the news, 
"I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours 



36 WOKDSWORTH. 

Sliould pass into a stranger's liand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us; and if he were not false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — but 
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my i^urpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. 
Another kinsman, — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go. 
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gain'd ? " 

At this the old Man paused. 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself. 
He was a parish-boy ; at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence. 
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
A basket, which they fill'd with pedlar's wares ; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floor'd 
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
Pass'd quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brighten'd. The old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed : " Well, Isabel, this scheme. 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 



MICHAEL. 37 J 

Far more than we liave lost is left us yet. I 

We have enough, — I wish indeed that I ; 

Were younger ; but this hope is a good hojie. i 

Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth i 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : ,j 

If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." \ 

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth j 

With a light heart. The Housewife for five days \ 

Was restless morn and night, and all day long ' 

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare i 

Things needful for the journey of her son. j 

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 1 

To stop her in her work : for, when she lay < 

By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleej) : 
And when they rose at morning she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
W^ere sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember, — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Eecover'd heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing Aveek the house appear'd 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
Th' expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To which requests were added, that forthwith 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house return'd, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answer'd, talking much of things 
W^hich, if at such short notice he should go. 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 



38 WORDSWORTH 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had design'd 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose he had gather'd up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet^s edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd: 
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, 
And thus the old Man spake to him : " My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 
First cam'st into the world, — as oft befalls 
To new-born infants, — thou didst sleep away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, 
And in the open fields my life was pass'd, 
And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills. 
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young 
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
He sobb'd aloud. The old Man grasp'd his hand. 
And said, " Nay, do not take it so, — I see 
That these are things of which I need not speak. 
Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
A kind and a good Father : and herein 
I but repay a gift which I myself 
Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Eemember them who loved me in my youth. 
Both of them sleep together: here they lived, 



MICHAEL. 39 

As all their Forefathers had done; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 

I wish'd that thou shouldst live the life they lived: 

But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields Avere burthen'd when they came to me; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toil'd and toiFd; God bless'd me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou shouldst go." 

At this the old Man paused; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood. 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
" This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone, — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy part; 
I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to thee: 
Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone. 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
With many hopes; it should be so, — yes — yes, — 
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 
Only by links of love: when thou art gone, 
What will be left to us ? — But I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of tliis moment; hither turn thy thoughts. 
And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well! 



40 WORDS WOKTH. j 

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

^Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last^ | 

And bear thy memory with me to the grave." \ 

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, [ 
And, as his Father had requested, 

Laid the first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight ; 

The old Man's grief broke from liim; to his heart i 

He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; j 

And to the house together they returned. ■ 

Husli'd was that House in peace, or seeming peace, \ 

Ere tlie night fell: with morrow's dawn the Boy ! 
Began his journey, and when he had reach'd 
The public way, he put on a bold face; 

And all the neiglibours, as he pass'd their doors, ^ 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 

That follow'd him till he was out of sight. i 

A good report did from their Kinsman come, i 

Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy ' 
AVrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 

Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout , 

" The prettiest letters that were ever seen." i 

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. - 

So, many months pass'd on: and once again i 

The Shepherd went about his daily work ' \ 

With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now ,1 

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour \ 

He to that valley took his way, and there i 

Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began ' 
To slacken in his duty; and, at length. 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 

To evil courses : ignominy and shame j 

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last i 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 

'Twill make a thing endurable, which else j 

Would overset the brain, or break the heart: j 

I have conversed witli more than one who well \ 

Eemember the old Man, and what he was j 

Years after he had heard this heavy news. j 

His bodily frame had been from youth to age \ 

Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks j 

He went, and still look'd up to Sun and cloud, ] 

And listen'd to the wind ; and, as before, i 

Perform'd all kinds of labour for his sheep, ! 



THE BROTHERS. 41 J 

And for the land, liis small inheritance. • 

And to that holloAv dell from time to time I 

Did he repair, to bnild the Fold of which j 

His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet | 

The pity which was then in every heart ' 

For the old Man ; and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 

And never lifted up a single stone. ] 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen j 

Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, j 

Then old, beside him, l}ing at his feet. ] 

The length of full seven years, from time to time, i 

He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, | 

And left the work unfinished when he died. ' 

Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at her death th' estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evexixg Star 
Is gone ; the ploughshare has been through the ground 
On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
In all the neighbourhood : yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains i 

Of the unfinish'd Sheep-fold may be seen 1 

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. [1800. j 



THE BEOTHEES. 



" These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live 
A profitable life : some glance along, 
Eapid and- gay, as if the earth were air, 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the Summer lasted : some, as wise, 
Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag. 
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee. 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look. 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles. 
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder? — In our church-yard 
Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
Tombstone nor name, — only the turf we tread 
And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife. 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening ; and he sate 



42 ' WORDSWOKTH. 

Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employ'd in Winter's work. Upon the stone 
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
While, from the twin cards tooth'd Avith glittering wire. 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps. 
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 
In which the Parish Cliapel stood alone. 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall. 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
Eisen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
He laid his implements with gentle care. 
Each in the other lock'd ; and, down the path 
That from his cottage to the church -yard led, 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 
'Twas one well known to him in former days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that calhng, tempted to entrust 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters; with the mariners 
A fellow-mariner ; — and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been rear'd 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : and, when the regular wind 
Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail. 
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks. 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 
Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought 
In union with th' employment of his heart, 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome. 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep. 
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
On verdant hills, — with dwellings among trees, 



THE BKOTHEKS. 43 j 

And shepherds clad in the same country grey 
Which he himself had worn. 

And now at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is return'd, 

With a determined purpose to resume | 

The life he had lived there ; both for the sake j 

Of many darling pleasures, and the love j 

Which to an only brother he has borne j 

In all his hardships, since that happy time | 

When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two j 

Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 1 

They were the last of all their race : and now, \ 

When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart - 

Fail'd in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, j 

He to the solitary church-yard turn'd; \ 

That, as he knew in what particular spot 

His family were laid, he thence might learn ,\ 

If still his Brother lived, or to the tile 

Another grave was added. — He had found i 

Another grave, near which a full half -hour 1 

He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew ; 

Such a confusion in his memory, ' 

That he began to doubt ; and even to hope ] 

That he had seen this heap of turf before, — ] 

That it was not another grave ; but one 

He had forgotten. He had lost his path, i 

As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd i 

Through fields which once had been well known to him : j 

And 0, what joy this recollection now j 

Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, | 

And, looking round, imagined that he saw i 

Strange alteration wrought on every side | 

Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks ] 

And everlasting hills themselves were changed. j 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come 
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate l 

Stopp'd short ; and thence, at leisure, limb by limb \ 

Perused him with a gay complacency. j 

Ay, thought the Yicar, smiling to himself, 
'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
The happy man will creep about the fields, 



44 WORDSWORTH. 

Following liis fancies by tlie hour, to bring 

Tears down liis cheek, or solitary smiles 

Into his face, until the setting Sun 

Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 

Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate 

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd 

The good Man might have communed with himself. 

But that the Stranger, Avho had left the grave, 

Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once, 

And, after greetings interchanged, and given 

By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued : 

Leon, You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
They cannot be remember'd ? Scarce a funeral 'i 

Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; \ 

And yet some changes must take place among you : g 

And you, who dAvell here, even among these rocks \ 

Can trace the finger of mortality, \ 

And see, that with our threescore years and ten f 

"We are not all that perish. — I remember, \ 

(For many years ago I pass'd this road,) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields \ 

By the brook-side, — 'tis gone, — and that dark cleft ! 
To me it does not seem to wear the face 
Which then it had. 

Priest. N"ay, Sir, for aught I know, i 

That chasm is much the same — j 

Leo7i. But, surely, yonder — j 

Friest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend j 

That does not play you false. On that tall pike | 

(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) \ 

There were two springs which bubbled side by side, ■! 

As if they had been made that they might be ^ 

Companions for each other : the huge crag ] 

Was rent with lightning, — one hath disappear'd ; \ 

The other, left behind, is flowing still. j 

For accidents and changes such as these, j 

We want not store of them ; — a water-spout : 

Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast \ 

For folks that wander up and down like you, ■ 

To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff \ 

One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm j 

Will come with loads of January snow, i 



THE BKOTHEKS. 45 

And in one night send twenty score of sheep 

To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 

B}^ some untoward death among the rocks : 

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 

A wood is fell'd: — and then for our own homes ! 

A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, 

A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 

The old house-clock is deck'd with a new face ; 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 

To chronicle the time, we all have here 

A pair of diaries, — one serving. Sir, 

For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side. 

Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, 

Commend me to these valleys ! 
Leon. Yet your Church-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 

To say that you are heedless of the past : 

An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 

Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 

Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 

Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man^s home 

Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
Priest. Why, there. Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 

The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 

If every English church-yard were like ours ; 

Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 

We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 

We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 

And then, for our immortal part, we want 

No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 

The thought of death sits easy on the man 

Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
Leon. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 

Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 

You, Sir, could help me to the history 

Of half these graves ? 
Priest. For eight-score Winters past. 

With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard. 

Perhaps I might ; and, on a Winter-evening, 

If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one 

We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ; 

Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 

Now there's a grave, — your foot is half upon it, — 

It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 

Died broken-hearted. 



46 WOKDSWORTH. 

Leon. 'Tis a common case. 

We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church- yard wall. 

Priest. " That's Walter Ewbank. 

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds 
Of their inheritance, that single cottage, — 
You see it yonder, — and those few green fields. 
They toil'd and v/rought, and still, from sire to son. 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little, — yet a little ; — and old Walter, 
They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
Year after year the old man still kept up 
A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, 
Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
And went into his grave before his time. 
Poor Walter ! whether it was care that sj)urr'd him 
God only knows, but to the very last 
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
His pace was never that of an old man : ' 
I almost see him tripping down the path 
With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night. 
Have far to travel ; and on these rough paths, 
Even in the longest day of midsummer, — 

Leon. But those two Orphans ! 

Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were, - 

Yet not while Walter lived : for, though their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys. 
Two fathers in one father : and if tears. 
Shed Avhen he talk'd of them where they were not, 
And haun tings from th' infirmity of love. 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. 
This old Man, in the day of his old age. 
Was half a mother to them. — If you Aveep, Sir, 
To hear a stranger talking about strangers. 
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
Ay, — you may turn that wa}^, — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 



THE BKOTHERS. 47 , 

i 

Leon. These boys, — I hope | 

They loved this good old Man ? — I 

Priest. They did, and truly : I 

But that was what we almost overlook'd, i 

They were such darlings of each other. Yes, ■ 
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness; 
They notwithstanding had much love to spare. 

And it all went into each other's hearts. \ 

Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, ^ 

Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, | 

To hear, to meet them! From their house the school I 

Is distant three short miles, and in the time i 

Of storm and thaw, when every water-course j 

And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed i 

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, j 

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, ^ 

Would Leonard then, when elder boys remain'd : 
At home, go staggering through the slippery fords. 

Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him, : 

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, ; 

Ay, more than once I've seen him, mid-leg deep, ' 

Their two books lying both on a dry stone, \ 
Upon the hither side : and once I said. 
As I remember, looking round these rocks 

And hills on which we all of us were born, : 

That God who made the great book of the world \ 

Would bless such piety, — \ 

Leon. It may be, then, — \ 

Priest. N'ever did worthier lads break English bread: ' "j 

The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, i 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 

Could never keep those boys away from church, . 

Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath-breach. j 

Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner \ 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 

That venturous foot could reach, to one or both j 

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. j 

Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; j 

They play'd like two young ravens on the crags : ; 

Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well i 

As many of their betters ; — and, for Leonard, j 

The very night before he went away, J 
In my own house I put into his hand 



48 WORDSWORTH. 

A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet, 

Leon. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
A comfort to each other, — 

Priest. That they might 

Live to such end, is Avhat both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wisli'd, 
And what, for my i^art, I have often pray'd : 
But Leonard — 

Leon. Then James still is left among you ? 

Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking : 
They had an uncle; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafiick'd on the seas: 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
And, though of unripe 3-ears, a stripling onh^, 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 
Th' estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years ; — 
Well, all was gone, and they were destitute. 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
Eesolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. | 

If there were one among us who had heard \ 

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, I 

From the Great Gavel,^ down by Leeza's banks, \ 

And down the Enna,° far as Egremont, ' 

The day would be a joyous festival ; 

And those two bells of ours, which there you see \ 

Hanging in the open air, — but, good Sir! J 

This is sad talk, — they'll never sound for him % 

Living or dead. When last we heard of him, | 

He was in slavery among the Moors | 

Upon the Barbary coast. 'Tvvas not a little 3 

That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, ■ 

Before it ended in his death, the Youth ; 

Was sadly cross'd. — Poor Leonard ! when we parted, ' 

5 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of j 
a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head \ 
of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Bon-owdale. 

6 The Leeza is a river which Hows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on issuing from : 
the LalvC, it clianges its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into j 
the sea a little below Egremont. 



THE BKOTHEES. 49 i 

■i 

He took me by the hand, and said to me, 3 

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, j 

To live in peace upon his father's land, \ 

And lay his bones among us. ! 

Leon. If that day ] 

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; \ 

He would himself, no doubt, be happy then i 

As any that should meet him, — : 

Priest. Happy! Sir, — \ 

Leon. You said his kindred all were in their graves, '\ 

And that he had one Brother, — ; 

Priest. That is but j 
A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 

James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 1 

And Leonard being always by his side J 

Had done so many offices about him, j 

That, though he was not of a timid nature, ! 

Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy ■ 
In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
The little colour that he had was soon 

Stol'n from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined, — i 

Leon. But these are all the graves of full-grown men! l 

Priest. Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us; ■ 

He was the child of all the dale; he lived I 
Three months with one, and six months with another; • j 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: 

And many, many happy days were his. \ 

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief \ 

His absent Brother still was at his heart. ; 
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 

(A practice till this time unknow^n to him) *\ 

That often, rising from his bed at night, i 

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping | 

He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved! '\ 

Forgive me. Sir: before I spoke to you, : 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leon. But this Youth, i 

How did he die at last? I 

Priest. One sweet May-morning, \ 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns,) \ 

He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, | 

With two or three companions, whom their course \ 

Of occupation led from height to height I 
Under a cloudless Sun, till he at length 

Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge i 



50 WORDSWORTH. 

The humour of tlie moment, lagg'd behind. 

You see yon precipice; — it wears the shape 

Of a vast building made of many crags; 

And in the midst is one particular rock 

That rises like a column from the vale. 

Whence by our shepherds it is call'd The Pillar. 

Upon its aery summit crown'd with heath. 

The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades. 

Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place 

On their return, they found that he was gone. 

No ill was fear'd; till one of them by chance 

Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 

"Which at that time was James's home, there learn'd 

That nobody had seen him all that day: 

The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 

The neighbours were alarm' d, and to the brook 

Some hasten'd; some ran to the lake: ere noon 

They found him at the foot of that same rock 

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 

I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

Leon. And that, then, is liis grave ! — Before his death 
You say that he saw many happy years ? 

Priest, Ay, that he did. 

Leo7i. And all went well with him ? 

Priest, If he had one, the youth had tweaty homes. 

Leon, And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? 

Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
Is a true friend to sorrow; and, unless 
His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune. 
He talk'd about him with a cheerful love. 

Leon, He could not come to an unhallow'd end! 

Priest. ]^ay, Grod forbid! You Tecollect I mention'd 
A habit which disquietude and gi'ief 
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured 
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
On the soft heath; and, waiting for his comrades. 
He there had faU'n asleep; that in his sleep ^ 

He to the margin of the precipice 

Had walk'd, and from the summit had fall'n headlong: 
And so no doubt he perish'd. When the Youth 
Fell, in his hand he must have gTasp'd, we think. 
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock ' 

It had been caught midway; ^ and there for years 

7 The poem arose oxit of the fact, mentioned, to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd 
had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock callert The Pillar, and perished as here 
described, his staff being left midway on the rock. — The Autlm s Notes, 



TnE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAE. 51 

It liung; and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended. 
The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; 
And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate. 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, 
And, looking at the grave, he said, ^^ My Brother!" 
The Vicar did not hear the words; and now 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 
The other thank'd him with an earnest voice; 
But added that, the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove 
That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, 
And, sitting down beneath the trees, re\dew'd 
All that the Priest had said : his early years 
AVere with him: his long absence, cherisJi'd liopes. 
And thoughts which had been his an hour l3cfore. 
All press'd on him with such a weight, that now 
This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd 
A place in which he could not bear to live: 
So he relinquish'd all his purposes. 
He travell'd back to Egremont : and thence, 
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
Eeminding him of what had pass'd between them; 
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
That it was from the weakness of his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. • 



THE OLD CUMBEELAND BEGGAE. 

The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will prol.iably 
soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who 
confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain 
fixed days, on which, at different honses, they regularly received alms, sometimes 
in money, but mostly in provisions. 

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; ^ 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 

8 Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. The 
political economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in 
all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless 



62 WOKDSWOKTH. 

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
That overlays the pile ; and from a bag 
All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile. 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand. 
That, still attempting to prevent the waste. 
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
'Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
Approach'd within the length of half his staff. 

Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now : 
He travels on, a solitary Man, 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin 
Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so. 
But still, when he has given his horse the rein. 
Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
The toll-gate, when in Summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
The aged beggar coming, quits her work. 
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
The aged Beggar in the woody lane. 
Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warn'd 
The old man does not change his course, the boy 
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside. 
And passes gently by, without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 

He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along, 
They move along the ground ; and evermore, 

process has been carried as far as it can go, by the amended poor-law bill, though 
the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat diirguit-ed by the pro- 
fession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of 
their neighbours. — The Author's Notes. 



THE OLD CUMBEELAl^D BEGGAE. 63 \ 

i 

Instead of common and habitual sight 

Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, ! 

And the blue sky, one little span of earth ] 

Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, . I 
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 

He plies his weary journey; seeing still, j 

And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 1 

Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track, i 

The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left j 

Impress'd on the white road, — in the same line, j 

At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! I 

His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet I 

Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still I 
In look and motion, that the cottage curs. 
Ere he has pass'd the door, will turn away. 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths. 

And urchins newly breech' d, — all pass him by : i 

Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. i 

But deem not this Man useless.^ — Statesmen ! ye ' ] 

Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye ': 

Who have a broom still ready in your hands ; 

To rid the w^orld of nuisances ; ye proud, ' 

Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate ] 

Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not '' 

A burthen of the Earth ! ^Tis Nature's law \ 

That none, the meanest of created things, ' 
Of forms created the most vile and brute. 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 

Divorced from good, — a spirit and pulse of good, : 

A life and soul, to every mode of being \ 

Inseparably link'd. Then be assured \ 

That least of all can aught — that ever own'd i 

The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime ! 

Which man is born to — sink, howe'er depressed, | 

So low as to be scorn'd without a sin ; ^ 

Without offence to Grod cast out of view ; ( 

Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower j 

Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement I 

Worn out and worthless. While from door to door j 

This old Man creeps, the villagers in him \ 

Behold a record which together binds ' 

Past deeds and offices of charity, , 

Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive ■ 
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 



54: WOKDSWORTH. 

Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
To selfishness and cold obliyious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets.and thinly- scattered villages, 
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds. 
The mild necessity of use compels 
To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,* 
Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
To virtue and true goodness. 

Some there are, 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness, which to the end of time 
Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such minds 
In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
(A thing more precious far than all that books 
Or the solicitudes of love can do) 
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought 
In which they found their kindred with a world 
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove 
Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
A silent monitor, which on their minds 
Must needs impress a transitory thought 
Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
His charters ^ and exemptions ; and perchance, 
Though he to no one give the fortitude 
And circumspection needful to preserve 
His present blessings, and to husband up 
The respite of the season, he, at least, — 
And 'tis no vulgar service, — makes them felt. 
Yet further. — Many, I believe, there are 

9 Tliat is, the pleasure that springs up, unsought, by the way-side of duty and 
good works. 

1 Charter is a favourite word Avith Englislimen, from the service done, or sup- 
posed to be done, by Magna Charta, and other like instruments, in securing the 
national freedom. Hence it has grown to carry the general sense of liberty protected 
by law. Here charters means privileges. 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 55 

Who live a life of virtuous decency, 

Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel i 

No self-reproach ; who of the moral law I 

Establish'd in the land where they abide j 

Are strict observers ; and not negligent \ 

In acts of love to tliose with whom they dwell, i 

Their kindred, and the children of their blood. ' 

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! 1 

But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; ' 
Go, and demand of him, if there be here 

In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, ? 
And these inevitable charities. 
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 

1^0 ! man is dear to man ; the poorest poor \ 

Long for some moments in a weary life ] 

When they can know and feel that they have been, j 

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out i 

Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such ] 

As needed kindness ; for this single cause i 

That we have all of us one human heart. j 

Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, - 

My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week ■ 

Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself j 

By her own wants, she from her store of meal j 

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip j 

Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door • 

Returning with exhilarated heart, ' 

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven. . 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! \ 

And while, in that vast solitude to which ] 

The tide of things has borne him, he appears ! 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 

Still let him prompt th' unletter'd villagers i 

To tender offices and pensive thoughts. \ 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! ] 

And, long as he can wander, let him breathe j 
The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 

And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath { 

Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. l 
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 

May never House, misnamed of I^^dustey, j 



56 WOEDSWORTH. 

Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din, 

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air. 

Be his the natural silence of old age ! 

Let him be free of mountain solitudes ; 

And have around him, whether heard Or not, 

The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 

Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now 

Been doom'd so long to settle upon earth 

That not without some effort they behold 

The countenance of the horizontal Sun, 

Eising or setting, let the light at least 

Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 

And let him, tvhere and ivlien he will, sit down 

Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 

Of highway side, and with the little birds 

Share his chance-gather'd meal; and, finally, 

As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 

So in the eye of Nature let him die! [1798. 



THE FAEMER OF TILSBUEY VALE.* 

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined. 
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind. 
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen. 
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. 

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
His staff is a sceptre, his grey hairs a crown; 
And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak 
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the joy 
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; 
That countenance there fashion'd, which, spite of a stain 
That his life hath received, to the last will remain. 

A Farmer he was; and his house far and near 
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: 

2 The character of this man Avas described to me, and the incident upon which 
the verses turn was told me by Mr. Pool of Nether Stowey, During my residence 
at Alfoxden I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the 
course of his life, especially his conduct to liis labourers and poor neighbours. If I 
seem in these verses to have treated h'.s transgression too tenderly, it may in part be 
ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. 
He was much beloved by distinguished persons, — by Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Soutliey, 
Sir H. Davy, and many others ; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued 
as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter 
part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to 
The Reverie of Poor Susan. — From the Author's Notes. 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 57 

How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 

Of the silver-rimm'd horn whence he dealt his mild ale! 

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin; 
His fields seem'd to know what their Master was doing; 
And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea. 
All caught the infection, — as generous as he. 

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — 
The fields better suited the ease of his soul: 
He stray 'd through the fields like an indolent wight. 
The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight. 

For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, 
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: 
He gave them the best that he had; or, to say 
What less may mislead you, they took it away. 

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm : 

The Genius of plenty preseiwed him from harm: 

At length, what to most is a season of sorrow. 

His means are run out, — he must beg, or must borrow. 

To the neighbours he went, — all were free with their money, 
For his hive had so long been replenish'd with honey, 
That they dreamt not of dearth : he continued his rounds, 
Knock'd here and knock'd there, pounds still adding to 
pounds. 

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, 
And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
Then, (what is too true,) without hinting a word, 
Turn'd his back on the country, and off like a bird. 

You lift up your eyes; but I guess that you frame 
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame: 
In him it was scarcely a business of art. 
For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 

To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; 
And there, with small w^ealth but his legs and his hands, 
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 

All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, — 
Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; 
But Nature is gracious, necessity kind. 
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind. 



58 



WORDSWORTH. 



He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; 
Iwice as fasc as before does his blood run about- 
You would say that each hair of his beard was alive. 
And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes 
About work that he knows, in a track that he knows- 
But often his mind is compell'd to demur, ' 

And you guess that the more then his body must stir. 

In the throng of the town like a stranger is he. 
Like one whose own country's far over the sea;' 
And JN'ature, while through the great city he hies. 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. 

This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 
More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue- 
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, ' 
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? 
Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets- 
With a look of such earnestness often will stand, ' 
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.^ 

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 

Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers. 

Old Adam will smile at the pains that have niade 

Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 

'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, 
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; 
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, 
And his hearing is touch'd with the sounds of a dream. 

Up the Haymarket-hill he oft whistles his way. 
Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; 
He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, 
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. 

But chiefly to Smithfleld he loves to repair, — 
If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. 
Ihe breath of the cows you may see him inhale, 
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. 

Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid. 
May one blade of grass spring up over thy head; 
8 The Stravd is one of the most thronged and crowded thoroughfares in London 



THE TWO THIEVES. 59 

And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, j 

Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.* [1803. | 



THE REYEEIE OF POOE SUSAK 

At the corner of Wood-Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide. 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. 
The one only dwelling on Earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in Heaven: but they fade. 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: 

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 

And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! [1797. 



THE TWO THIEVES: 

OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVAKICE.^ 

O, NOW that the genius of Bewick were mine, 
And the skill which he learn'd on the banks of the Tyne! 
Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, 
For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. 

What feats would I work with my magical hand! 
Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land: 
And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls, 
Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. 

The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; 

Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care! 

i The Farmer of Tilsburj/ Vale is a charming counterpart to Poor Susan, with the 
addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so line in 
" the Old Thief and thcBoy by his side," which always brings water into my eyes. — 
Charles Lamb. 

5 This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a boy at 
Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than myself when he 
was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No book could have so early tauglit me 
to think of the changes to which human life is subject; and while looking at him I 
could not but say to myself, " We may, one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, 
live to become still more the object of pity than this old man, this hall-doating ]Dil- 
ferer."— The Author's JSotes. 



60 WOEDSWORTH. 

For tlie Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves, 
0, what would they be to my my tale of two Thieves? 

The One, yet nnbreech'd, is not three birthdays old, 
His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told ; 
There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather 
Between them, and both go a-pilfering together. 

With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor? 
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door? 
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide ; 
And his G-randson's as busy at work by his side. 

Old Daniel begins ; he stops short, and his eye, 
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly : 
'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, 
But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 

He once had a heart which was moved by the wires 
Of manifold pleasures and many desires : 
And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'twas no more 
Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 

'Twas a path trod by thousands ; but Daniel is one 
Who went something further than others have gone ; 
And now with old Daniel you see how it fares ; 
You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. 

The pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the Sun 
Has peer'd o'er the beeches, their work is begun : 
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall. 
This child but half knows it, and that not at all. 

They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread. 
And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led ; 
And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles. 
Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 

Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam; 
For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home. 
Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done ; 
And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one. 

Old Man, whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 

I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : 

Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher we see 

That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. [1800. 



POWER OF MUSIC. 61 

POWER OF MUSIC. 

An" Orpheus! an Orpheus! Yes, Faith may grow bold, 
And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
I^ear the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, 
In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd its name. 

His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, 
He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — 
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him? 

What an eager assembly I what an empire is this ! 
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; 
The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest; 
And the guilt-burthen'd soul is no longer opprest. 

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night. 
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-brow'd Jack, 
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste, — 
What matter ! he's caught, and his time runs to waste ; 
The Newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret ; 
And the half-breathless Lamplighter, he's in the net ! 

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — 
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; 
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! 

He stands, back'd by the wall ; — he abates not his din ; 
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, 
From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there ! 
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 

0, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 

Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ; 

I am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 

If they speak, 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. 

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height. 
Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? 0, not he! 
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower 
That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour ! — 



62 WORDSWOETH. 

That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, 
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream ; 

Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : 

They are deaf to your murmurs, — they care not for you, 

Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! [1806. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 

And hermits are contented with their cells ; 

And students with their pensive citadels; 

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 

Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom. 

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,® 

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 

In truth, the prison unto which we doom 

Ourselves no prison is : and hence to me. 

In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 

Pleased if some Souls, (for such there needs must be,) 

Who've felt the weight of too much liberty. 

Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 

ADMONITIOif. 

Well mayst thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye I 

The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 

Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky. 

But covet not th' Abode : forbear to sigh, 

As many do, repining while they look ; 

Intruders, who would tear from Nature's book 

This precious leaf, Avith harsh impiety. 

Think what the Home must be if it were thine. 

Even thine, though few thy wants! Roof, window, door. 

The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 

The roses to the porch which they entwine : 

Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 

On which it should be touch 'd, would melt away. 



" Beloved Vale ! " I said, " when I shall con 
Those many records of my childish years, 

6 Fell is a provincial term for a barren, or a stony hill. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 63 

Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
Will press me down : to think of what is gone 
Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; 
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none. 
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall ; 
So narrow seenrd the brooks, the fields so small! 
A Juggler's balls old Time about him toss'd ; 
I look'd, I stared, I smiled, I laugh 'd ; and all 
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 

1801. 

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 

Together in immortal books enroll'd : 

His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 

And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide 

Into two ample horns his forehead wide," '' 

Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 

Wliile not an English Mountain we behold 

By the celestial Muses glorified. 

Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds : 

What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 

Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty 

Our British Hill is nobler far : he shrouds 

His double front among Atlantic clouds. 

And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.^ 



There is a little unpretending Rill 

Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 

That ever among Men or Naiads sought 

Notice or name ! — It quivers down the hill, 

Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ; 

Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought 

Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 

Of private recollection sweet and still ! 

Months perish with their moons ; year treads on year ; 

But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say 

That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear. 

And flies their memory fast almost as they ; 

7 Alluding to Mount Parnassus, which throws up two peaks to a conspicuous 
height, and hence is often described by the poets as double-headed. It was one of 
the chiel seats of Apollo and the Muses. 

8 Castulia, a celebrated fountain on Mount Parnassus, sacred to Apollo and the 
Muses. 



64 WORDSWOBTH. 

Th' immortal Spirit of one happy day- 
Lingers beside that Eill, in vision clear* 



Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory at her side, 

And the glad Muse at liberty to note 

All that to each is precious, as we float 

Gently along ; regardless who shall chide 

If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 

Happy Associates breathing air remote 

From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 

"Why have I crowded this small bark with you 

And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 

While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues 

To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, 

No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ? 



" Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings, 
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" 
" Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
From its own country, and forgive the strings." 
A simple answer! but even so forth springs. 
From the Castalian fountain of the heart. 
The Poetry of Life, and all tliat Art 
Divine of words quickening insensate things. 
From the submissive necks of guiltless men 
Stretch'd on the block, the glittering axe recoils; 
Sun, Moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils 
Of mortal sympathy: what wonder, then, 
That the poor Harp distemper'd music yields 
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 

TO SLEEP. 

GEKTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee, 
These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost love 
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
A captive never wishing to be free. 
This tiresome night, Sleep, thou art to me 
A Fl}^, that up and down himself doth shove 
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above 

9 Tliis Rill trickles doAAai the hill-side into "Winrlermere, near TiOWAVOod. My 
sister and J, on our first visit together to this part of the country, Avalked from Ken- 
dal, and we i-ested ourselves by tiie side of the lake Avhere the streamlet falls into 
it. This sonnet was AvriLlen some years after, iu recollection of that most happy day 
and hour. — From the Author's Notes. 



MISCELLAlsrEOUS SOKNETS. 65 

Now on tlie water vex'cl with mockery. 
I have no pain that calls for patience, no; 
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: 
Am pleased hy fits to have thee for my foe. 
Yet ever willing to be reconciled: 

gentle Creature! do not nse me so. 
But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep, 
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; 
The very sweetest. Fancy culls or frames, 
AYhen thankfulness of heart is strong and deep. 
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames 
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
Like to a breeze from Heaven. Shall I alone, 

1 surely not a man ungently made. 

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? 
Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown. 
Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd 
Still last to come where thou art Avanted most! 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
And could not win thee. Sleep, by any stealth: 
So do not let me wear to-night away: 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day. 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 

W^RITTEN- UPOK A BLAI^K LEAF IN" "THE 

While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport. 
Shall live the name of Walton : Sage benign ! 
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line 
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
To reverend watching of each still report 
That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 



6S WORDSWORTH. 

Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, 

He found the longest summer day too short. 

To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 

Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook. 

Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 

The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree; 

And the fresh meads, — where flow'd, from every nook 

Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety! 



Ik my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 

Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 

Eose out of darkness: the bright work stood still; 

And might of its own beauty have been proud, 

But it was fashion'd and to God was vow'd 

By virtues that diffused, in every part. 

Spirit divine through forms of human art: 

Faith had her arch, — her arch, when winds blow loud. 

Into the consciousness of safety thrill'd; 

And Love her towers of dread foundation laid 

Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire 

Star-high, and pointing still to something higher: 

Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice, — it said, 

** Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build." ^ 

COMPOSED liiT Oi^^E OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, OK | 
EASTER SUKDAY. ' j 

"With each recurrence of this glorious morn j 

That saw the Saviour in his human frame j 

Eise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame 

Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn : I 

Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn; ^ 

And she who span it culFd the daintiest fleece, { 

In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, | 

Whose temples bled beneatli the platted thorn. 

A blest estate when piety sublime 

These humble props disdain'd not ! green dales ! 

Sad may /be who heard your sabbath chime 

When Art's abused inventions were uukuoAvn ; 

Kind ^N^ature's various wealth was all your own ; 

And benefits were weigh'd in Season's scales ! 

DECAY OF PIETY. 



Oft have I seen, ere Time had plough'd my cheek. 
Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. C7 

Of tlieir loved Church, on fast or festival 

Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek: 

By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 

Of Easter winds, un scared, from hut or hall 

They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, 

But with one fervour of devotion meek. 

I see the places where they once were known. 

And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, 

Is ancient Piety for ever flown ? 

Alas ! even then they seem'd like fleecy clouds 

That, struggling through the western sky, have won 

Their pensive light from a departed Sun. 

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MAERIAGE OF A FEIEND IN 
THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812. 

What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay. 

These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 

Angels of love, look down upon tlie place ; 

Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 

Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display 

Even for such promise : — serious is her face. 

Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace 

With gentleness, in that becoming way 

Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear ; 

No disproportion in her soul, no strife : 

But, when the closer view of wedded life 

Hath shown that nothing human can be clear 

From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 

To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 

And I be undeluded, unbetray'd; 

For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made 

The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 

Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 

Glory to that eternal Peace is paid. 

Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 

With beauty, which is varying every hour; 

But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower. 

That breathes on Earth the air of Paradise. 



68 WOEDSWOETH. 



FEOM THE SAME. 



No mortal object did these eyes behold 

When first they met the placid light of thine ; 

And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 

Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; 

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 

(For what delights the sense is false and weak) 

Ideal Form, the universal mould. 

The wise man, I afl&rm, can find no rest 

In that which perishes : nor will he lend 

His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 

'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love. 

That kills the soul : love betters what is best, 

Even here below, but more in Heaven above. 

FEOM THE SAME. TO THE SUPEEME BEING. 

The pr ayers I make will then be sweet indeed 

If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 

My unassisted heart is barren clay, 

That of its native self can nothing feed : 

Of good and pious works Thou art the seed. 

That quickens only where Thou say'st it may: 

Unless Thou shew to us Thine own true way 

No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. 

Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind 

By which such virtue may in me be bred 

That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 

The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind. 

That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 

And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 



Suepeised by joy, impatient as the Wind, 

I turn'd to share the transport, — ! with whom 

But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 

That spot which no vicissitude can find? 

Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind : 

But how could I forget thee ? through what power, 

Even for the least division of an hour. 

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 

To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return 

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 



MISCELLAIS'EOUS SONNETS. 69 

That neither present time nor years unborn 
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.-^ 



Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne j 

Which mists and vaponrs from mine eyes did shroud ; I 

Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; i 

But all the steps and ground about were strown l 

With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone j 

Ever put on ; a miserable crowd, ' 

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, 
"Thou art our king, Death! to thee we groan." ' 

Those steps I clomb ; the mists before me gave i 

Smooth way ; and I behold the face of one ] 

Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, .; 

With her face up to heaven ; that seem'd to have 
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; 
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave! \ 

KOVEMBER, 1836. ] 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 

The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen , ; 

Thy countenance — the still rapture of thy mien — 

Wlien thon, dear Sister ! wert become Death's Bride : 

No trace of pain ar languor could abide 

That change : age on thy brow was smooth'd, thy cold ] 

Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold ] 

A loveliness to living youth denied.^ \ 

0, if within me hope should e'er decline, I 

The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly bnrn ; 

Then may that Heaven-revealing smile of thine, 

The bright assurance, visibly return : 

And let my spirit in that power divine 

Rejoice, sls, through that power, it ceased to mourn. '] 



It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad Sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 
Listen 1 the mighty Being is awake. 
And doth with His eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

1 This sonnet was suggested to the poet bv liis daughtev Catharine long after her 
death. She was bora September G, 1808, aud'died June 4, 1812. 

2 Referring to the poet's sister-in-law, Sarah Hutchinson, who lived with him 
many years, and died at his home, June 23, 1836. 



70 WORDSWOETH. 

Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here. 
If thou appear untouch 'd by solemn thought, 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 



The world is too much with us; late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We've given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the Moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for every thing, we're out of tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn. 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; . 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found. 
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, 
On ^^^coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay; 
How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground 
Of Nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; 
Convinced that there, theie only, she can lay 
Secure foundations. As the year runs round, 
Apart she toils within the chosen ring; 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of Spring; 
Where even the motion of an Angel's wing 
Would interrupt th' intense tranquillity 
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 



" Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind; i 

Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays; \ 

Heavy is woe; and joy, for human-kind, I 

A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" • 

Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days ■, 

Who wants the glorious faculty assign'd i 

To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, J 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 71 

And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. 

Imagination is that sacred power. 

Imagination lofty and refined: 

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 

Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind 

Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower. 

And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. 

TO THE MEMOKT OF RAISLET CALYERT.^ 

Calvert, it must not he unheard by them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem, — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; 
If there be aught of j)ure, or good, or great, 
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood which now I meditate; — 
It gladdens me, worthy, short-lived Youth! 
To think how much of this will be thy praise. 



Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd. 

Mindless of its just honours: with this key 

Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; 

With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief: 

The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress Avith which Dante crown'd 

His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few! 



How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! 

3 This young man died of consumption, in January, 1795. Dui-ing his sickness he 
was attended some time by Words\vortli, and in his will bequeathed to the poet nine 
hundred pounds. This hapijily rescued the poet from the necessity of earning his 
bread by writing for the newspapers. The bequest was made entirely from confi- 
dence, on the donor's part, that Wordsworth had powers and attainments which 
might be of use to mankind. 



72 WORDSWOBTH. 

An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; 

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 

Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 

At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, — 

When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks 

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, 

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 

Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, 

Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam 

Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink. 

And leap at once, from the delicious stream. 



Teakquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou 

In heathen schools of philosophic lore; 

Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 

The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; 

And what of hope Elysium could allow 

Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 

Peace to the mourner. But when He who wore 

The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow 

Warm'd our sad being with celestial light. 

Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace 

From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 

Communed with that Idea face to face; 

And move around it now, as planets run 

Each in its orbit round the central Sun. 



Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild i 

With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; I 

And, if an unexpected cloud should lour, j 
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 

For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half -till'd i 

Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, ■ 
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power, i 

Unpitied by the wise, all censure still'd. ! 

Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due: \ 

Fair Prime of life, arouse the deeper heart; ; 
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 

Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; i 

And, if there be a joy that slights the claim \ 
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.* 

4 Suggested by observation of the way in which a young friend, whom I do not; 
choose to name, misspent his time and misapplied his talents. He took aiterwards , 
a better course, and became a useful member of society, respected, I believe, wher- 1 
ever Jae has been known. — The Author's Notes. ; 



MISCELLANEOUS SOCKETS. 73 



EETIREMEKT. 



If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 

Save only far as thought and feeling blend 

With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend, 

From thy remonstrance would be no appeal: 

But to promote and fortify the weal 

Of our own Being is her paramount end; 

A truth which they alone shall comprehend 

Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. 

Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss: 

Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake. 

And startled only by the rustling brake. 

Cool air I breathe; while th' unincumber'd Mind, 

By some weak aims at services assign'd 

To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 



Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell \ 

Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, i 

Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange, — i 

Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; | 

But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, i 

There also is the Muse not loth to range, ~ | 

Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, ; 

Skyward ascending from a woody dell. * 

Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, i 
And sage content, and placid melancholy; 
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, — 

Diaphanous because it travels slowly; i 

Soft is the music that would charm for ever; j 

Tlie flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. j 

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURITEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETOI^ HILLS. | 

YORKSHIRE. ] 

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell; . 

The wish'd-for point was reach'd, — but at an hour i 

When little could be gain'd from that rich dower i 

Of prospect whereof many thousands tell. I 

Yet did the glowing West with marvellous power ] 

Salute us; there stood Indian citadel, ] 

Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower i 

Substantially express'd, — a place for bell j 

Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle, | 

With groves that never were imagined, lay ■ 

'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for th' eye j 

Of silent rapture; but we felt the while ! 



74 WOKDSWORTH. 

We should forget them; they are of the sky. 
And from our earthly memory fade away.* 



" they are of the sky, j 

And from our earthly memory fade away.** ! 

Those words were utter'd as in pelisive mood ^ 

We turn'd, departing from that solemn sight; I 

A contrast and reproach to gross delight, | 

And life's nnspiritual pleasures daily woo'd! \ 

But now upon this thought I cannot hrood; ; 

It is unstable as a dream of night; I 

Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, j 

Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. | 

Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, | 

Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, i 

Find in the heart of man no natural home: ] 

Th' immortal mind craves objects that endure: ! 

These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, < 

Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. . 

SEPTEMBER, 1815. ! 

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields. 

With ripening harvest prodigally fair, i 

In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, j 

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields ] 

His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields i 
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware; - I 

And whispers to the silent birds, ^' Prepare i 
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." 

For me, who under kindlier laws belong ' 

To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry \ 

Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, I 

Announce a season potent to renews j 

'Mid frost and snow, th' instinctive joys of song, j 

And nobler cares than listless Summer knew. \ 

NOVEMBER 1. j 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head. 

Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, | 

Shines like another sun, — on mortal sight j 

Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, i 

And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, | 

5 Compored Octoher 4th, 1802, after a Journey over the Hamhleton Hills, on a daj 
memorable to ine, — the day of my maiTiage. The horizon, commanded by those hilM 

\& moat vasigm&ceut,— A uthar'& Notes, 



MISCELLAJnTEOUS SOiTKETS. 75 

If so lie might, yon mountain's glittering head, — 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
Unswej^t, unstain'd? Nor shall th' aerial Powers 
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
Has fiU'd the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 

COMPOSED DUKIJTG A STOEM. 

Oi^B who was suffering tumult in his soul 

Yet fail'd to seek the sure relief of prayer, 

Went forth, — his course surrendering to the care 

Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 

Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; 

While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 

The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 

And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 

As if the Sun were not. He raised his eye 

Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did apjoear 

Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 

An azure disc, — shield of Tranquillity ; 

Invisible, unlook'd-for minister 

Of providential goodness ever nigh! 

TO A SN^OW-DROP. 

Loi^E Flower, hemm'd in with snows and white as they. 

But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 

Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 

Like an unbidden guest. Though, day by day, 

Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay 

The rising Sun, and on the plains descend; 

Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 

Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May 

Shall soon behold this border thickly set 

With bright Jonquils, their odours lavishing 

On the soft west-Avind and his frolic peers ; 

Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 

Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, 

And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 

TO LADY BEAUM0]!^T. 

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
While I was shaping beds for winter flow^ers ; 
While I was planting green unfading bowers, 



76 WOEDSWORTH. 

And shrubs, — to hang upon the warm alcove 

And sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy wove 

The dream, to time and Nature's blended powers 

I gave this paradise for winter hours, — ■ 

A labyrinth. Lady! which your feet shall rove. 

Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, 

Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 

Or of high gladness you shall hither bring ; 

And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines 

Be gracious as the music and the bloom 

And all the mighty ravishment of Spring. 



There is a pleasure in poetic pains 

Which only Poets hnoic; — 'twas rightly said: . 

"Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 

Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? 

When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 

How oft the malice of one luckless word 

Pursues th' Enthusiast to the social board. 

Haunts him belated on the silent plains! 

Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear. 

At last, of hindrance and obscurity. 

Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; 

Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear , 

The moment it has left the virgin's eye. 

Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 



The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 
"Bright is thy veil, Moon, as thou art bright!" 
Forthwith that little cloud, in ether spread 
And penetrated all with tender light. 
She cast away, and show'd her fulgent head 
Uncover'd; dazzling the Beholder's sight, 
As if to vindicate her beauty's right. 
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside. 
Went floating from her, darkening as it went; 
And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, 
Appjoach'd this glory of the firmament; 
Who meekly yields, and is obscured, — content 
With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 



When haughty expectations prostrate lie. 
And grandeur crouches like a guilty tiling. 



MISCELLANEOUS SOKNETS. 77 

Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 

Mature release, in fair society 

Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; 

Like these frail snow-drops that together cling. 

And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 

Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 

Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great 

May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand 

Th' Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; 

And so the bright immortal Theban band, 

Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command. 

Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! 

Not dull art thou as un discerning Night; 

But studious only to remove from siglit 

Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power! 

Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lour. 

To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest 

Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 

On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 

Look'd ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 

The self-same Vision which we now behold. 

At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; 

These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; 

The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 

As the beginning of the Heavens and Earth! 



With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the sky, 

" How silently, and with how wan a face ! " 

Where art thou? thou so often seen on high 

Eunning among the clouds a AVood-nymph's race! 

Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 

Which they would stifle, move at such a pace ! 

The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, 

Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 

The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be: 

And all the stars, fast as the clouds Avere riven, 

Should sally forth, to keep thee company. 

Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven; 

But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given. 

Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 



EvEK as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 



78 WOEDSWORTH. 

Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: 
The lake below reflects it not; the sky 
Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
A gay society with faces bright, 
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they sing, 
While hearts and voices in the song unite. 



The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest; 
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
A habitation marvellously plann'd. 
For life to occupy in love and rest; 
All that we see is dome, or vault, or nest, 
Or fortress, rear'd at Nature's sage command. 
Glad thought for every season ! but the Spring 
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; 
And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning 
Abodes where self -disturbance hath no part. 



Despondi]!^g Father! mark this alter'd bough. 

So beautiful of late, with sunshine warm'd. 

Or moist with dews; w^hat more unsightly now. 

Its blossoms shrivell'd, and its fruit, if form'd, 

Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow 

Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 

As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 

At like unlovely process in the May 

Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, 

Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 

(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 

Eich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call: 

In all men, sinful is it to be slow 

To hope, — in Parents, sinful above all. 



Brook! whose society the Poet seeks. 
Intent his wasted spirits to renew; 



MISCELLANEOUS SOKKETS. 79 

And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, 
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ; 
If wish were mine some type of thee to view, 
Tjj)e, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouldst thou be, — 
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: 
It seems th' Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, 
And hath bestow'd on thee a safer good ; 
Unwearied Joy, and life without its cares. 

COMPOSED UPOJS^ WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802. 

Earth has not any thing to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did Sun more beautifully steep, 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



They call'd Thee Merry England, in old time: 

A hapi)y people won for thee that name 

With envy heard in many a distant clime; 

And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 

Endearing title, a responsive chime 

To the heart's fond belief; though some there are 

Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare 

For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 

That foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, 

This face of rural beauty be a mask 

For discontent, and poverty, and crime? 

These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? 

Forbid it. Heaven! — and Merry England still 

Sliall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme! 



80 WOKDSWORTH. ■ 

1 
OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. | 

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth, j 

In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers i 

Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours : 

The air of liberty, the light of truth; * 

Much have ye suffer'd from Time's gnawing tooth: ,; 
Yet, ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers! 

Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers '. 

The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, ' 

Transform'd, and rushing on a bold exchange, ' 

I slight my own beloved Cam, to range [ 

Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; | 

Pace the long avenue, or glide adown i 

The stream-like windings of that glorious street, — J 

An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown! : 

QXFOED, MAY 30, 1820. ^ 

Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 

Such transport, though but for a moment's space; 

Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 

The crescent Moon clove with its glittering prow I 

The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough; | 

But in plain daylight: — She, too, at my side, j 

Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, \ 

Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! ® 

Sv/eet Fancy, other gifts must I receive; ' i 

Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim : * 

Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, .; 

And to that brow life's morning wreath restore; | 

Let her be comprehended in the frame j 

Of these illusions, or they please no more. .! 

A PAESOI^^AGE I:N" OXFOEDSHIRE.' 

Wheee holy ground begins, unhallow'd ends, i 

Is mark'd by no distinguishable line ; * 

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; '■ 

And, Avhercsoe'er the stealing footstep tends, j 

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, 

6 Referring to the poet's wife, who accompanied him on his visit to Oxford at this j 
time. In what follows, the poet checks his Fancy, whicli had almost transformed him j 
into a youthful student, and recalls it to the matter-of-fac.t blessings of his wedded i 
life. His home, and the ti*easures it contained, were indeed a perennial spring of in- ■ 
spiration to him : there his great, simple, earnest mind had many of its best and hap- = 
piest kindUn<?s. 

7 Where the Rev. Robert Jones, the poet's old college friend and fellow-traveller ; 
among the Alps, resided many years. Wordsworth has the following in reference to ' 
him : *' This excellent person,' one of my earliest and dearest friends, died in the year ■ 
183.5. We were undergraduates together of the same year, at the same college; and \ 
companions in many a delightful ramble through his own romantic countiy of North' 
Wales. Our long friendship was never subject to a moment's interruption." 



MISCELLAN'EOUS SOiq-^ETS. 81 

And neighbours rest together, here confound 

Their several features, mingled like the sound 

Of many waters, or as evening blends 

With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, 

"Waft fragrant greetings to eacli silent grave ; 

And while those lofty poplars gently wave 

Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky 

Bright as the glimpses of eternity 

To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 

COMPOSED AMOKG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IZS" KORTH WALES. 

Through shatter'd galleries, 'mid roofless halls. 
Wandering with timid footsteps oft betray'd, 
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls 
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, 
Prom the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, 
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. 
Eelic of Kings ! Wreck of forgotten wars, 
To winds abandon'd and the prying stars. 
Time loves Thee ! at his call the seasons twine 
Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar ; 
And, though past pomp no changes can restore, 
A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! 

AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL AKGELO. 

Rapt above Earth by power of one fair face. 
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, 
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights 
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. 
With Him who made the Work that Work accords 
So well, that by its help and through His grace 
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words. 
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. 
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, 
I feel how in their presence doth abide 
Light which to God is both the way and guide ; 
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, 
My noble fire emits the Joyful ray 
That through the realms of glory shines for aye. 

AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load. 
And loosen'd from the world, I turn to Thee ; 
Shun, like a shatter'd bark, the storm, and flee 



WORDSWORTH. 

To Thy protection for a safe abode. 

The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 

The meek, benign, and lacerated face, 

To a sincere repentance promise grace, 

To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 

With justice mark not Thou, Light divine! 

My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear ; 

Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe ; 

Wash with thy blood my sins ; thereto incline 

More readily the more my years require 

Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 

IJf LOMBARDY. 

See, where his diificult way that Old Man wins 
Bent by a load of Mulberi7 leaves ! Most hard 
Appears Ms lot, to the small Worm's compared, 
For whom his toil with early day begins. 
Acknowledging no task-master, at will 
(As if her labour and her ease were twins) 
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ; 
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. 
So fare they, — the man serving as her Slave. 
Ere long their fates do each to each conform : 
Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, 
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; 
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 



THE IKFAKT M- 



Ui^QUiET Childhood here by special grace 

Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 

That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power ; 

In painful struggles. Months each other chase, 

And nought untunes that Infant's voice ; ® no trace 

Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek ; 

Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 

That one enrapt with gazing on her face 

(Which even the placid innocence of death 

Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright) 

Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 

Tlie Virgin, as she shone v/ith kindred light; ' 

A nursling couch'd upon her mother's knee, ; 

Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 

8 -This infant was Mary Monkhouse, the only daughter of Wordsworth's friend \ 
and cousin, Thomas Monkhouse. 



MISCELLAKEOUS SOI^N^ETS. 83 

TO , IX HER SEVEjq^TIETH YEAR.® 

Such age how beautiful ! Lady bright, 

Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 

By favouring I^ature and a saintly Mind 

To something purer and more exquisite 

Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 

When I behold thy blanch'd unwither'd cheek, 

Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white. 

And head that droops because the soul is meek, 

Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 

That child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb 

From desolation toward the genial prime ; 

Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 

And filling more and more with crystal light 

As pensive Evening deepens into night. 



TO ROTHA Q . 

RoTHA, my Spritual Child ! this head was grey 

When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; 

Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 

And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 

Too late, I feel, sweet Or^ohan! was the day 

For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 

Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 

Embodied in the music of this Laj^, 

Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream 

Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 

After her throes, — this Stream of name more dear 

Since thou dost bear it ; ^ — a memorial theme 

For others ; for thy future self, a spell 

To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 



Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant 

Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 

Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, — 

Bound to thy service with unceasing care. 

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 

For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 

Speak, — though this soft Avarm heart, once free to hold 

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 

9 Lady Fitzgerald, as described to the poet by Lady Beaumont. 

1 The river Rotha, which flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere anfj 
Sydal.— The child was the daughter of Mr. Edward Quillinan, who, alter the death 
)ihis first wife, was married to the poet's daughter Dora. 



84 WOEDSWOKTH. 

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fiU'd with snow 

'Mid its own bnsh of leafless eglantine, — 

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! ^ 



A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 

Nor dares to move unpropp'd upon the stalf 

Which Art hath lodged within his hand, — must laugh 

By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 

Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 

And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool. 

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 

Have kill'd him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 

Because the lovely little flower is free 

Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 

And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 

Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 

But from its own divine vitality.^ 



The most alluring clouds that mount the sky 

Owe to a troubled element their forms, 

Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye 

We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, 

And wish the Lord of day his slow decline \ 

Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high? 

Behold, already they forget to shine, 

Dissolve, — and leave to him who gazed a sigh. i 

Not loth to thank each moment for its boon 

Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may. 

Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things attune 

Calm expectations ; leaving to the gay 

And volatile their love of transient bowers. 

The house that cannot pass away be ours ! 

COMPOSED OlS A MAY MOEIII^IN'G, 1838. 

Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun. 
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
Does joy approach ? they meet the coming tide ; 
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 

2 This sonnet was, in fact, written without the least reference to any individual 
object, but merely to prove to myself that I could, if I thought fit, write in a strain 
that poets have been fond of. — Author's Notes. 

3 I was impelled to write this sonnet by the disgusting frequency with which the 
word artisticai is employed by writers of the present day. For artistical let them sub- 
stitute artiii.r.inl, and the poetry A\Titten on this system will be, for the most part, 
much better charaterised. — Author's Notes. 



MISCELIANEOUS SONNETS. 85 

Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
Conch near tlieir dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
Or gambol, — each with his shadow at his side, 
Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
All turn, and court the shining and the green, 
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ; 
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, 
And so, His gifts and promises between, 
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 

TO A PAINTER. 

All praise the likeness by thy skill portray'd ; 

But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 

Who, yielding not to changes time has made, 

By the habitual light of memory see 

Eyes unbedimm'd, see bloom that cannot fade, 

And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee 

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; 

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 

Oouldst thou go back into far-distant years. 

Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 

Then, and then only. Painter, could thy Art 

The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 

Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears. 

Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.'* 



ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 
This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
I see its truth with unreluctant eyes. 
0, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, 
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: 
Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
And the old day was welcome as the young, 
As welcome, and as beautiful, — in sooth 
More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
Thanks to thy virtues, to th' eternal youth 
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
Into one vision, future, present, past. 

4 This sonnet and the next refer to a portrait of Mrs. Wordsworth from the pencil 
of Miss M. Gillies, who spent several weeks at the poet's home. 



86 WORDSWORTH. 

Hark! 'tis the Thrush, "undaunted, undeprest. 
By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain 
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, 
And seems, as more incited, still more blest. 
Thanks ! thou hast snapp'd a fire-side Prisoner's chain, 
Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain, 
And in a moment charm'd my cares to rest. 
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird, and front the blast, 
That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, 
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built 
Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, 
ThrilFd by loose snatches of the social Lay. 
Eydal ^louKT, 1838. 



Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! 

Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 

Fly upon swiftest wing round field and heiglit, 

But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 

There let a mystery of joy prevail, 

The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, 

And Eover whine, as at a second sight 

Of near- approaching good that shall not fail : 

And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 

Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — ' 

That hath her six wrecks' solitude beguiled 

With intimations manifold and dear, 

While we have wander'd over wood and wild — 

Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.*^ [1803. 

TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 

Amoxg the mountains we were nursed, loved Stream ! 

Thou near the eagle's nest, — within brief sail, 

I, of his bold wing floating on the gale. 

Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 

Of human life when first allow'd to gleam 

On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 

Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 

Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 

Of thy soft breath ! Less vivid wreath entwined 

Nemsean victor's brow ; less bright was worn, 

5 This sonnet was made upon the occasion of the poet and his sister returning 
from a long tour which they had taken, mostly on foot, through various parts of Scot- 
Land. The author tells us they reached home' the very day of the composition. His 
first child was born a short time before he set out on the tour. 



MISCELLANEOUS SOiq-jq^ETS. 87 

Meed of some Roman chief, — in triimipli borne 
"With captives chain'd ; and shedding from his car 
The sunset splendours of a finish'd war 
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 

Ilf SIGHT OF THE TOWi^^ OF COCKERMOUTH. 

( Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.) 

A POiN^T of life between my Parents' dust, 
And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
And to. those graves looking habitually 
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
Death to the innocent is more than just, 
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
So may I hope, if truly I repent, 
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: 
And you, my Offspring ! that do still remain. 
Yet may outstrip me in th' appointed race. 
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
We breathed together for a moment's space, 
The wrong, by love provok'd, let love arraign. 
And only love keep in your hearts a place. 

[K THE CHAKKEL, BETWEEN" THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND AND 
THE ISLE OF MAN. 

Eanging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb, 

In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause. 

And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 

By which the clouds, array'd in light or gloom. 

On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 

Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws 

From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause, 

He will take with him to the silent tomb. 

Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee, 

Haply th' untaught Philosopher may speak 

Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 

That satisfies the simple and the meek. 

Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 

To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 

AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 

Bold words affirm'd, in days when faith was strong 
And doubts and scruples seldom teazed the brain, 
That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
These shores if he approach'd them bent on wrong ; 
For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
Mists rose to hide the Land ; that search, though long 



88 WOEDSWORTH. 

And eager, miglit be still pursued in vain. 
O Fancy, what an age was that for song! 
That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
As men believed, the waters were impelled, 
The air controll'd, the stars their courses held ; 
But element and orb on acts did wait 
Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct 
With will, and to their work by passion link'd. 

TO THE PLANET YENUS. 
( Upon its approximation, as an Evening Star, to the Earth, Jan. 1838.) 

"What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, 
Thee, Vesper, brightening still, as if, the nearer 
Thou com'st to man's abode, the spot grew dearer 
Night after night? True is it, Nature hides 
Her treasures less and less. Man now presides 
In power, where once he trembled in his weakness ; 
Science advances with gigantic strides : 
But are we aught enrich'd in love and meekness? 
Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure and wise 
More than in humbler times graced human story ? 
That makes our hearts more apt to sj'mpathise 
With Heaven, our souls more fit for future glory, 
When Earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, 
Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 

MARY QUEE:S" of SCOTS. 
(Landing at the mouth of the Derwent, Workington.) 

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vow'd. 
The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
And to the throng, that on tlie Cumbrian shore 
Her landing hail'd, how touchingly she bow'd ! 
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts. 
When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
She smiled: but Time, the old Saturnian seer, 
Sigh'd on the wing as her foot press'd the strand, 
AVith step prelusive to a long array 
Of woes and degradations hand in hand, — 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stiird by til' ensanguined block of Fotheringay! 

ON" THE SIGHT OF A MAN^SE IJS" THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 

Say, ye far-travell'd clouds, far-seeing hills, — 
Among the happiest-looking homes of men 



MISCELLANEOUS SONKETS. 89 

Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen, 

On airy upland, and by forest rills, 

And o'er wide plains cheer'd by the lark that trills 

His sky-born warblings, — does aught meet your ken 

More fit to animate the Poet's pen. 

Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 

Pure minds with sinless envy, than tli' Abode 

Of the good Priest? who, faithful through all hours 

To his high charge, and truly serving God, 

Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, 

Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 

Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 



COMPOSED IK HOSLIN CHAPEL, DUEIiiTG A STOEM. 

The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 

(We know not whence) ministers for a bell 

To mark some change of service. As the swell 

Of music reach'd its height, and even when sank 

The notes, in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 

Of silence, how it thrill'd thy sumptuous roof. 

Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof, 

Though Christian rites be wanting ! From what bank 

Came those live herbs ? by what hand were they sown 

Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? 

Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 

Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown, 

Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, 

Though mute, of all things blending into one. 



SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM li^ A STORM. 

Enough of garlands, of th' Arcadian crook. 

And all that Greece and Italy have sung 

Of swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 

Ours couch on naked rocks, — will cross a brook 

Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 

This way or that, or give it even a thought 

More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 

Into a vacant mind. Can written book 

Teach v\^hat they learn ? Up, hardy Mountaineer ! 

And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 

Of Nature's privy council, as thou art. 

On cloud-sequester'd heights, that see and hear 

To what dread Powers He delegates his ])art 

On Earth, who works in th' Heaven of heavens, alone. 



90 WOEDSWORTH. 

THE EARL OF BREADALBAN^E's RUIN^ED MAl^TSION", A]S"D FAM- 
ILY BURIAL-PLACE, I^^EAR KILLIN". 

"Well sang the Bard who calFd the grave, in strains 
Thoughtful and sad, the " narrow house." No style 
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
Grief of her sting ; nor cheat, where he detains 
The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile 
With truth, or with each other, deck'd remains 
Of a once w^arm Abode, and that 7iew Pile, 
For the departed, built with curious pains 
And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand 
Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
To be look'd down upon by ancient hills. 
That, for the living and the dead, demand 
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; 
Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 

TO THE PLAN^ET VENUS, AN EVENINa STAR. 
{Composed at Loch Lomond.) 

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth 

Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 

To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from Earth, 

In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, 

Perplex'd as if between a splendour lost 

And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun, 

The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 

Kelinquish'd half his empire to the host 

Embolden'd by thy guidance, holy Star, — 

Holy as princely, — who that looks on thee 

Touching, as now, in thy humility 

The mountain borders of this seat of care, 

Can question that thy countenance is bright, 

Celestial Power, as much with love as light? 

BOTH WELL CASTLE. 

{Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.) 

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave 

(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 

Once on those steeps / roam'd at large, and have 

In mind the landscape, as if still in sight ; 

The river glides, the woods before me wave : 

Then why repine that now in vain I crave 

Needless renewal of an old delight? 

Better to thank a dear and long-past day 



MISCELLAKEOUS SONJ^^ETS. 91 

For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. 
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey, 
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive: 
How little that she cherishes is lost ! 



(At the head of Glencroe.) , 

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, : 

Who, that has gain'd at length the wish'd-for Height, i 

This brief, this simple way-side Call can slight, ] 

And rests not thankful? Whether cheer'd by talk j 

With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk i 

Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine j 

At the Sun's outbreak, as with light divine, '■ 

Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 

Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, , 

Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep ; 

Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air. 

And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, — ■ 

So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows, > 

Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels share. ' 

HIGHLAND HUT. 

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 

Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, '■ 

Shines in the greeting of the Sun's first ray 

Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. I 

The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; 

And why shouldst thou? — If rightly train'd and bred, \ 

Humanity is humble, finds no spot 

W^hieh her Heaven -guided feet refuse to tread. 

The walls are crack'd, sunk is the flowery roof, ' 

TJndress'd the pathway leading to the door; 

But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; j 

Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, ! 

Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer. 

Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof! 



92 WORDSWOKTH. 

LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON 
REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING 

A TOUR, JULY 13th, 1798. 

Five years have past; five Summers, with the length 

Of five long Winters! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur.® — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

^Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These hedge-rows, — hardly hedge-rows, little lines 

Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, 

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem. 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have OAved to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration; — feelings too 
Of unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps. 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremember'd acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood 
In whicli the burthen of the mystery. 
In wliich the heavy and the weary weight 

6 The river is not affected by the tides a few inilcs ahove Tintern. 



TINTEEK ABBEY. 

Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is ligliten'd; — that serene and blessed mood 

In which the affections gently lead us on, — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul; 

While, with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, 0, how oft, — 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the Avorld, 
Have hung wpon the beatings of my heart, — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
How often has my spirit turn'd to thee! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again; 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers and the lonely streams. 
Wherever J^ature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
Their colours and tlieir forms, were then to me 
An appetite; a feeling and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm. 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrow'd from the eye. — ^'That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 



94 



WOBDSWORTH. 

And all its dizzy raptures. ISTot for this 
:^aint I nor moLirn nor mnrmur: other gifts 
Have follow'd; for such loss, I would believe. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 

tL inlf I f ' ^^-'^^i .^"^ ^^^^^'^"^ oftentimes 
1 he stii], sad music of humanity 

^or harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

lo chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the loy 

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 

0± something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwellmg is. the light of setting suns. 

And the round ocean, and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man- 

Ti?l? .^^^ and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

t^^i? f i'"""^^' f ^ ^^''''^''' Therefore 2m I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
^rom this green earth; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear,- both what they half create. 
And what perceiye; well pleased to recognise. 
In JNature and the language of the sense! 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
1 he guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Ol all my moral being. 

T» T ^ ,, N'or, perchance. 

If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Gutter my genial spirits to decay: 
nf^i*-^^? F^ ^^ith me here upon the banks 
Vf ]^^ ^'^^®^'' *^^^^ ^y dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My lormer pleasures in the shooting lights 

?T y,^'^^. ?^^^'- ^> ye* ^ little while 
May I behold m thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
-Knowing that Nature never did betray 
Ihe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
J^rom joy to joy: for she can so inform 

theism.''' ifu? Wo'SS^^J1Kf;;^;:J 1"^,^ *^»^'^* '\y «««»« to savour of Pan- 
imniateria], as beinJr iS-.'^(lJ,f l,v liv^L'''" all Nature, material and 

beauty-making Po veJfwh cU -Sun- n l n^l.?."/''^'''"!"^' >" diligent Soul, a conscious 
Omnipresence. ^"''^*' ^^"^^'^' '^^^01 all, may be only another term for the Divine 



II2n:ERiT ABBEY. 95 

The mind that is within ns, so impress 

With quietness and beaiitv, and so feed 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 

Eash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 

Kor gi'eetings where no kindness is, nor ail 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the Moon 

Shine on thee in'thy solitary walk; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee: and, in after years, 

When these Avild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure: when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; 0, then. 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations! Xor, perchance, — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catcli from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence, — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together; and that I. so long 

A worshipper of Xature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service; rather say 

With warmer love, — 0, with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love I Xor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steex"> woods and lofty cliffs. 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.® [1T98. 

8 This i3 decidedly one of Woi-ds worth's most characteristic strains. It was given 
to the world in his lii-st volume of Luricd Ba'^ods, ITOS, and may be not unjustly said 
to have inaugoii-ated a new era in English Poetiy. Perhaps a more original vein was 
never stiiick by any uninspired hand": certainly "England had not produce<l any tiling 
approaching it in originality since the days of "Milton. The enthusiastic worship of 
Xature here ilisplayed mayseem excessive to some; though this veiy excess, if such 
it be, constitutes, in part, the unique and peculiar charm of the poem. To the poet's 
early love of Nature, as kindled and fed by the lakes and streams and mountains of 
his native region, there had succeeded a "course of brain-tugging speculations : the 
French Revolution had, for a time, quite imsphered his niiiid, and whirled him far 
out of his proper orbit into a region where his more genial fiiculties could not breathe ; 
he had lost his better self, and almost broken his heart among the problems started 
by the events of the time. While in this st.^te of exile from his true intellectual 
h'ome, he was restored ro the society of his sister, whose influence won him back to 
his first love; and in this poem we have, preeminently, his first transports of return- 
ing health, — his fullest outpourings of rapture on regaining his heart's home. In his 
notes dictated at the age of seventy-three, we have the following: " N'o poem of mine 
was composed under circum&Uiuces more pleasiint for me to remember than this. I 



9^ WORDSWORTH. 

LAODAMIA.» 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; 
And from th' infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
Of night, my slaughter'd Lord have I required: 
Celestial pity I again implore; — 
Eestore him to my sight,— great Jove, restore!" 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; 

While, like the Sun emerging from a cloud. 

Her countenance brightens, and her eye expands; 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

terror! what hath she perceived? — joy! 
What doth she look on? — whom doth slie behold? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
It is,— if sense deceive her not,— 'tis He! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury! 

Mild Hermes spake, and touch'd her with his wand 

That calms all fear: " Such grace hath crown'd thy prayer, 

Laodamia! that at Jove's command 

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face! " 

Forth sprang th' impassion'd Queen her Lord to clasp; 

Again that consummation she essay'd; 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts,— but parts fco re-unite, 

And re-assume his place before her sight. 

began it iipon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was 
entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five davs, with mv sister. 
Is^ot a Lne of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bris- 

9 In this piece, as also in Dion, the author worked, and with most hanpy success, 
a vein which he had not before touched. Both of the poems are as classical in the 
style and manner as they are in the subjects. Though the poet carries to them his 
own mode ot thought, as he needs mast do, still there is nothing of Ids personality in 
ttiem: he transports himself as completely into the old mvthological point of view as 
any Greek or Roman poet could have done. About the 'time lie was writing them, 
he was attending a good deal to the education of his son John, and helping to pre- 
pare him lor the University; and this put him upon reperusing the principal Latin 
poets. Lamb, in one of his letters to Wordsworth, has the following: '« Lnodmnin is 



a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. Yc 
nave nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admire 
It, but not suspected its derivation." o ^ i & j 



LAODAMIA. 97 

" Protesilaus/ lo, thy guide is gone! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestow'd 
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." 

"Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect: Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Grreek who touch'd the Trojan strand 

Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes, — bravest, noblest, best! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propell'd thee to the fatal shore; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave: 
Kedundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enrich'd Thessalian air. 

No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side! 
Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove f rown'd in Heaven : the conscious Parc£e threw 
Upon the roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 

Nor should the change be mourn'd, even if the joys 

Of sense were able to returu as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 

Those raptures duly, — Erebus disdains: 

Calm pleasures there abide, majestic pains. 



98 WORDSWOKTH, 

Be taught, faithful Consort, to control 
Eebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not tlie tumult, of the soul; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn." 

"Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
Given back to dwell on Earth in vernal bloom? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

The Gods to us are merciful, and they 

Yet further may relent: for mightier far 

Than strength of neiTC and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over Sun and star. 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 

But if thou go'st, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said. 

She look'd upon him and was calm'd and cheer'd; 

The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appear'd 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of Love, such love as Spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
No fears to beat away, — no strife to heal, — 
The past unsigh'd-for, and the future sure; 
Spake of heroic hearts in graver mood 
Eevived, with finer harmony pursued; 

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 

In happier beauty; more pellucid streams. 

An ampler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 

Climes which the Sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earn'd 

That privilege by virtue. — '-111," said he, 

" The end of man's existence I discern'd, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 



LAODAMIA. 99 

And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
Chieftains and kings in council were detain'd; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchain'd. 

The wish'd-for wind was given: I then revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 

And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 

The paths which we had trod, — these fountains, flowers; 

My new-plann'd cities, and unfinish'd towers. 

But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
* Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
Yet of their number no one dares to die '? 
In soul I swe23t th' indignity away: 
Old frailties then recurr'd : but lofty thought. 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow: 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

Th' invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend. 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanction'd, chiefly for that end; 
For this * the passion to excess was driven, 
That self might be annull'd; her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shriek'd; for Hermes re-appears: 
Bound the dear Shade she would have clung, — 'tis vain: 
The hours are past, — too brief had they been years; 
And him no mortal effort can detain: 

1 This refers to what follows, " That self might be annull'd " ; that, in the line be. 
fore, to what precedes. 



100 WORDSWOKTH. 

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day. 
He through the portal takes his silent way, 
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 

Thus, all in yain exhorted and reproved. 
She perish'd; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doom'd to wear out her appointed time, 
Ai3art from happy Gliosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet ^mid unfading bowers. 

Yet tears to human suffering are due; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourn'd by man, and not by man alone, 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertain'd) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 

And ever, when such stature they had gain'tt 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 

The trees' tall summits witlier'd at the sight; 

A constant interchange of growth and blight!^ [1814. 



Diojsr. 



I. 



Faie is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake. 

Bears him on while, proudly sailing. 
He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake : 
Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve; 
An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings 
Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
A flaky weight of Winter's purest snows. 
Behold! — as with a gushing imj)ulse heaves 
That downy prow, and softly cleaves 
The mirror of the crystal flood. 
Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood. 
And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state. 
Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 

2 The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts ; 
and I wrote ^\-ith the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been 
given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated it. It cost me more trouble than 
ahnost any thing of equal length I have ever written. —Author's Notes. 



DION. 101 

Or Eival, save the Queen of night 

Showering down a silver light \ 

From heaven upon her chosen Favourite!* ] 

II. ] 
So pure, serene, and fitted to emhrace, ' 
Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace i 
Of haughtiness without pretence, j 
And to unfold a still magnificence, j 
Was princely Dion, in the power < 
And beauty of his happier hour. i 
And what pure homage then did wait ] 
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam : 

- Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, \ 

Fell round him in the grove of Academe, [ 

Softening their inhred dignity austere; ; 

That he, not too elate j 

With self-sufficing solitude, . 

But with majestic lowliness endued, i 

Might in the universal hosom reign, .^ 

And from affectionate observance gain ] 

Help, under every change of adverse fate. ; 

III. i 
Five thousand warriors, — the rapturous day! 

Each crown'd Avith flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield, ■ 
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

Who leads them on ? — The anxious people see j 

Loug-exiled Dion marching at their head, j 

He also crown'd with flowers of Sicily, j 

And in a white, far-beaming corselet clad! i 

Pure transport nndisturb'd by doubt or fear j 

The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain, \ 

Salute those strangers as a holy train j 

Or blest procession (to th' Immortals dear) I 

That brought their precious liberty again. i 
Lo! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand, 
Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine 
In seemly order stand. 

On tables set, as if for rites divine; ] 

3 This exquisite stanza was taken from its original place, and thrown into a note, j 
by the author, in his last edition, on the ground of its " detaining the reader too long ; 
from the subject, and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect of the * 
allusion to the genius of Plato." It may be so ; but my old delight in the poem is I 
bound up so closely with the oi-iginal form, and pleads so strongly for the restora- ] 
tion, that I cannot well refrain. — The general idea of the piece, and the leading inci- 
dents, are taken from Plutarch's Life of Dion: but what an exrjression is here given '■ 
of them! ; 



102 WORDSWORTH. 

And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn; 

And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless prodigality; 
'Nov doth the general voice abstain from prayer. 

Invoking Dion's tutelary care. 

As if a very Deity he were! 

IV. 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn, 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! 
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades! 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause. 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the school where Wisdom dwelt retired. 
Intent to trace th' ideal path of right 
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight: 
But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
W^ith aught that breathes th' ethereal element, 
Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood. 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. . 
W^hence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
HolloAv excuses, and triumphant pain; 
And oft his cogitations sink as low 
As, through th' abysses of a joyless heart. 
The heaviest plummet of despair can go: — 
But whence that sudden check? that fearful start? 
He hears an uncouth sound, — 
Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 

A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! 
A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 
And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
Like Austcr whirling to and fro, 
His force on Caspian foam to try; 

Or Boreas when he scours the snow 

That skins the plains of Thessaly, 

Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 

His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! 



DIOls^. 103 



So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
The sullen Spectre to lier purpose bow'd, 
Sweeping — yeliemently sweeping, — 
Xo pause admitted, no design avow'd. 
" Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — avaunt ! " 
Exclaim'd the Chieftain ; — " let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
Which they behold, whom vengeful furies haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne! " 

VI. 

But Shapes that come not at an eartlily call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 

Obeys a mystical intent ! 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
But, should she labour night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear ; 
Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
Which no Philosophy can brook! 

YII. 

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 
Pursue thee with their deadly aim. 
matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
Of monstrous crime! — that horror-striking blade, 
D rawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
Shudder'd the walls, the marble city wept. 

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. 
As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
Of spirit too capacious to require 
That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
To his own native greatness to desire 



104 WORDSWORTH. 

That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Released from life and cares of princely state. 

He left this moral grafted on his fate, — 

" Him only pleasure leads and peace attends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 

Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." [1816. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? — 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright: 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care: 
Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
Is placable, because occasions rise' 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. 
As tempted more ; more able to endure. 
As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law as on tlie best of friends ; 
Whence, in a State where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labours good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows : 



THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 105 

Who/ if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
On honourable terms, or else retire. 
And in himself possess his own desire ; 
AVho comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; 
Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
'But who, if he be call'd upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has join'd 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 
Or, if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : — 
He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 
Sweet images! which, wheresoever he be, 
Are at his heart; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to love. 
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be won: 
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
Looks forwai'd, persevering to the last. 
From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the Earth 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name. 



106 WORDSWORTH. 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 

This is the happ}^ Warrior; this is He 

That every Man in arms should wish to be. [1806. 



SONNETS. 



Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? 

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, 

Festively she puts forth in trim array: 

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? 

What boots th' inquiry? — Neither friend nor foe 

She cares for; let her travel where she may, 

She finds familiar names, a beaten way 

Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? 

And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 

(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 

Crossing the waters,) doubt, and something dark, 

Of the old Sea some reverential fear. 

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! 



With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 

Like stars in heaven, and Joyously it show'd; 

Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 

Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 

A goodly Vessel did I then espy 

Come like a giant from a haven broad; 

And lustily along the bay she strode. 

Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 

This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her. 

Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; 

This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: 

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 

No tarrying ; where She comes tlie winds must stir 

On went She, and due north her journey took. 



J 



ODE TO DUTY. 



107 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

["Not to the earth confiued, 
Ascend to lieaveu.''] 

WnEKE will they stop, those breatliing 

Powers, 
The Spirits of the new-boni flowers ? 
They wander with the breeze, they wind 
Where'er the streams a passage find; 
Up from their native ground they rise 
In mute aerial harmonies : 
From humble violet — modest thyme — 
Exhaled, th' essential odours climb, 
As if no space below the sky 
Their subtle flight could satisfy: 
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with 

pride 
If like ambition be their guide. [ers, 

Roused by this kindliest of May-show- 
The spirit-quickeuer of the flowers. 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats, — 
Here oheckVl by too impetuous haste, 
While there the music runs to waste. 
With bounty more and more enlarged, 
Till the whole air is overcharged : 
Give ear, O -Man ! to their appeal, 
And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
Thou, who canst think, as weU as feel. 

Mount from the Earth ; aspii-e ! aspire ! 
So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
While incense from the altar breathes 
Eich fragrance in embodied wreaths; 
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic Fonus, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill. 
That on the service wait conceal'd 
One moment, and the next reveal'd. — 
Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 
Of still or moving imagery, — 
The iterated summons loud, 
Not wasted on th' attendant crowd, 
Nor Avholly lost upon the thi-ong 
nuriyiug the busy streets along? 

Alas I the sanctities combined 
By art to iinsensualise the mind. 
Decay and languish; or, as creeds 



And humours change, are spurn'd like 

Aveeds : 
The priests are from their altars thrust; 
Temples are levell'd with the dust; 
And solemn rites and awful forms 
Founder amid fanatic storms. 
Yet evermore, through years renew'd 
In imdisturbed vicissitude 
Of seasons balancing their flight 
On the swilt wings of day and night, 
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
Wide open for the scatter'd Poor. 
Where flower-breathed incense to the 

skies 
Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
Is fragi-ant with a humbler vow; 
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
Ciiime forth unwearied canticles. 
And vapours magnily and spread 
The glory of the Sun's bright head, — 
Still constant in her worship, still 
Conforming to th' eternal Will, 
Whether men sow or reap the flelds, 
Divine monition Nature yields, 
That not by bread alone we live, 
Or what a hand of flesh can give; 
That eveiy day should leave some part 
Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
So shall the seventh be truly blest, 
From morn to eve, with hallow'd rest. 

[1832. 



ODE TO DUTY. 

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 
perductus, ut non tautum recte facere 
possim, sed nisi recte facere non pos- 
sim."i 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victoiy and law 
When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
manity ! 



1 " No longer good by conscious effort, 
but so led on to goodness by habit, that 
now I not only can do what "is right, but 
am unable to do otherwise." — The motto 
well propounds the centi-al thought of 
this noble Ode, which is "all compact" 
of the finest gold. 



108 



WOEDSWOETH. 



There are who ask not if thine eye 

Bo on them ; who, in love and truth, 

Whore no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; 

Who do thy work, and knoAv it not : 

0, if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power, 

ai'ound them cast 1 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security .2 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek thy fii-m support, according to 
their need. 

1, loving freedom, and untried ; 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too bliudlj' have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
J5ut thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 
Or strong compunction in me wroiight, 
I supplicate for thy control ; 
But in the quietness of thought: 
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires ; ^ 
I feel the weight of chance-desires ; 



2 The poet here strikes a deep prin- 
ciple of ethics. When a man is so in love 
with Duty as to find his supreme delight 
therein, then he will naturally be held to 
her service b.v the sweetness of it, and 
constancy in that service Avill needs per- 
petuate his joy. 

3 Witli Englishmen, the word charter 
carries the sense of liberty secured by 
law. But that which protects freedom 
necessarily restrains and limits it. And 
inward freedom is a l)iessing, and by up- 
right minds is felt to be such, so far only 
as the inner man is seli-restrained and 
ordei^ed in submission to the law of con- 
science. Now, Duty, with her stern legis- 
lation, is the proper home of conscience; 
and so none but the Milling bondmen 
of Duty can have the peace and joy of 
that home. In the well-known words of 
Hooker, "Of Law there can no less be 
acknowledged, than that her seat is the 
bosom of God, her voice the harmony of 
the world. " 



1 

ige their 



My hopes no more must change 

name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's raiost benignant grace ; 
Nor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
Thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power I 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
O, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
The confidence of reason give; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let 
me live I [1805. 



ODE TO LYCORIS. 
MAY, 1817. 

An age hath been when Earth was proud 
Of lustre too intense 
To be sustain'd ; and Mortals bow'd 
The front in self-defence. 
Who then, if Dian's crescent gleam'd, 
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow stream'd 
While on the wing the Urchhi play'd. 
Could fearlessly approach the shade ? — 
Enough for one soft vernal day, 
if I, a bard of ebbing time, 
And nurtured in a fickle clime, 
May haunt this horned bay; 
^Yhose amorous water multiplies 
The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 
And smooths her liquid breast, to show 
These swan-like specks of mountain 
snow, [plains 

White as the pair that slid along the 
Of heaven, when Venus held the reins !* 



4 This poem originated in the last four 
lines of the first stanza. Those specks of 
snow, reflected in the lake and so trans- 
ieired, as it were, to the subaqueous sky, 
reminded me of the swans which the 
fancy of the ancient classic poets yoked 
to the car of Venus. Hence the tenor of 
the whole first stanza, and the name of 



AK EVENING VOLUNTARY. 



109 



II. 

lu youth we love the darksome lawu 

Brnsh'd by the owlet's wine:; 

Then Twilight is preferr'd to Dawn, 

And Autumn to the Spring. 

Sad fancies do we then ailect, 

In luxury of disrespect 

To our own prodigal excess 

Of too familiar happiness. — 

Lycoris, (if such name befit 

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 

AVhen Nature marks the year's decline, 

Be ours to welcome it; 

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 

Before the path of milder suns; 

Pleased while the sylvan world displays 

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; 

Pleased when the sullen winds resound 

the knell 
Of the resplendent miracle. 

ni. 

But something whispers to my heart 
That, as we doAvnward tend, 
Lycoris I life requires an art 
To which our souls must bend ; 
A skill, to balance and supply; 
And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 
As soon it must, a sense to sip. 
Or drink, Avith no fastidious lip. 
Then welcome, above all, the Guest 
Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea. 
Seem to recal the Deity 
Of youth into the breast: 
May pensive Autumn ne'er present 
A claim to her disparagement ! 
While blossoms and the budding spray 
Inspire us in our o\n\ decay. 
Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the 
Soul ! 5 



Lycoris, which — with some readers who 
think mythology and classical allusion 
too far-fetched, and therefore more or less 
unnatural and affected — will tend to un 
realize the sentiment that pervades these 
verses. But surely one who has written 
so much in verse a"s I liave done may be 
allowed to retrace his steps in the regions 
of fancy which delighted him in his boy- 
hood, when he first became acquainted 
witli the Greek and Latin Poets. — Au- 
thor's Notcn. 

5 In his notes on this poem, the author 
has the following: "Nine tenths of my 
verses have been murmured out in the 
open air. And here let luc repeat what I 
believe has already appeared in print 



AN EVENING VOLUNTARY, 

COMPOSED ON AN EVENING OF EXTRAOR- 
DINATvY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY, 



Had this effulgence disappear'd 
With flying haste, I might have sent, 
Among the speechless clouds, a look 
Of blank astonishment; 
But 'tis endued with power to stay, 
And sanctify one closing day, 
That frail Mortality may see — 
What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 
Time was when field and watery cove 
With modulated echoes rang, 
While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
Their vespers in the grove; 
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sover- 
eign height, [low. 
Warbled, for Heaven above and Earth bo- 
Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rltj, 
Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
From hill or vaUey, could not move 
SubUmer transport, purer love, 
Than doth this silent spectacle— the gleam, 
The shadow, and the peace supreme ! 

n. 

No sound is utter'd, — but a deep 

And solemn harmony pervades 

The hollow vale from steep to steep, 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Call'd forth by wondrous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues 

"Wliate'er it sti-ikes, with gem-like hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain side ; 

And glistening antlers are descried; 

And gilded flocks appear. — 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as god-Uke wish, or hope divine. 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 



One day a stranger, having walked round 
the garden and grounds of Rydal IMonnt, 
asked of one of the female servants, Avho 
happened to be at tlie door, permission to 
see her master's study. ' This,' said she, 
leading him forward, ' is my master's //6- 
mr//, where he keeps his books; but his 
studij is out of doors.' lifter a long ab- 
sence from home, it has more than once 
happened that some one of my cottage 
neighbours has said, ' Well, tiiere he is : 
we are glad to hear him booing about 
again.' " 



110 



WORDSWORTH. 



That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
From worlds not quicken'd by the Sun 
A portion of the gilt is won; [spread 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 
On ground which British shepherds tread ! 

III. 

And, if there he whom broken ties 
Afflict, or injuries assail, 
Yon hazy I'idges to their eyes 
Present a glorious scale, 
Climbing suffused with sunny air. 
To stop —no record hath told w'herc ! 
And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
And with immortal Spirits blend ! — 
Wings at my shoulders seem to play; 
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
On those bright steps that heaven-ward 
Their practicable way." — [raise 

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 
abroad, [bound ! 

And see to what fair countries ye are 
And if some traveller, weary of his I'oad, 
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy 
Ye Genii, to his covert speed ; [ground, 
And wake him with such gentle heed 
A^ may attune his soul to meet the dower 
Bestow'd on this transcendent hour! 

IV. 

Such hues from their celestial Urn 
Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
Where'er it wander'd in the morn 
Of blissful infancy. 
This glimpse of glory, why renew'd? 
Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
For, if a vestige of those gleams 
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams, [serve 
Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness 
No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
If aught unworthy be my choice. 
From Thee if I would swerve; 
O, let Thy grace remind me of the light 
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; 
Which, at this moment, oumvwaking si!?ht 



Appears to shine, by miracle restored : ] 

My soul, though yet confined to Earth, \ 

Rejoices in a second birth ! — | 

'Tis past, tlie visionary splendour fades; 
And night approaches with her shades.' ' 



6 The multiplication of mountain-ridg- 
es, here described as a kind of Jacob's- 
Laddor, leading to Heaven, is produced 
either by watery vapours, or sunny haze ; 
in the present instance by the latter cause. 
— The author says that in these lines he is 
" under obligation to the exquisite picture 
of Jacob' s-Drea/ii," by our American artist, 
Washington Allston. Wordsworth re- 
gards Allston as " a man of genius," and 
the two were warm friends. 



THE S03INAMBULIST. 

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower 

At eve ; how softly then 
Doth Aira-force ,8 that torrent hoarse, 

Speak from the woody glen I 
Fit music for a solemn vale I 

And holier seems the ground 
To him who catches on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale, 

Embodied in the sound. 

Not far from that fair site whereon 

The Pleasure-house is rear'd, 
As story says, in antique days 

A stern-brow'd house appear'd; 
Foil to a Jewel rich in light 

There set, and guarded well ; 
Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, 
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 

Beyond her native dell. 

To win this bright Bird from her cage, 

To make this Gem their own. 
Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 

And Knights of high renown : 
But one She prized, and only one; 

Sir Eglamore was he : — 
Full happy season, when Avas knoAvn, 
Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 

Their mutual loyalty; — 

Known chiefly, Aira I to thy glen, 
Thy brook, and bowers of holly; 

Where Passion caught what Nature 
That all but love is folly ; [taught, 

Whei-e Fact with Fancy stoop'd to play; 
Doubt came not, nor regret, 



7 In his Notes, the author tells us that 
this poem was " felt and in a great meas- 
ure composed upon the little mount in 
front of our abode at Rydal." — The last 
stanza is fraught with allusions to the 
Poet's celebrated Ode on Jjwiortnliti/,yvhich. 
is given in a subsequent part of this vol- 
ume. 

8 Lyulph's Tower is a pleasure-house 
situated upon the banks of Ullsvvater.— 
Fo7-ce is used in the Lake District for wa- 
ter-fall. 



THE SOMNAMBULIST. 



Ill 



To trouble hours that winjr'd their way, 
As if through an immortal day 
Whose Sun could never set. 

But in old times Love dwelt not long 

Sequester'd with repose ; 
Best thi-ove the fire of chaste desire, 

Fann'd by tlie breath of foes. 
" A conquering lance is beauty's test, 

And proves the Lover true : " 
So spake Sir Eglamore, and press'd 
The drooping Emma to his breast, 

And look'd a blind adieu. 

They parted. — Well with him it fared 

Thro\igh wide-spread regions en-ant ; 
A knight of proof in love's behoof, 

Tlie thirst of fame his warrant : 
And She her happiness can build 

On woman's quiet hours ; [shield, 

Though faint, compared with spear and 
The solace beads and masses yield, 

And needlework and flowers. 

Yet blest was Emma when she heard 

Her Champion's praise recounted; 
Though brain would swim, and eyes gi-ow 

And high her blushes mounted ; [dim. 
Or when a bold heroic lay 

She warbled from full heart; 
Delightful blossoms for the May 
Of absence ! but they will not stay, 

Born only to depart. 

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 

Whatever path he chooses; 
As if his orb, that oAvns no curb. 

Received the light hers loses. 
He comes not back; an ampler space 

Requires for nobler deeds ; 
He ranges on from place to lilace, 
Till of his doings is no trace, 

But what her fancy breeds. 

His fiime may spread, biit in the past 

Her spirit finds its centre ; 
Clear siglit She has of what lie was, 

And tliat would now content her. 
" Still is he my devoted Knight?" 

The tear in answer flows ; [weight ; 
Month falls on month Avith heavier 
Day sickens round her, and the night 

Is empty of repose. 

In sleep She sometimes walk'd abroad, 
Deep sighs with quick words blending, 



L!ke that pale Qncen whose hands are 
Witli fancied spots contending : [seen 

But she is innocent of blood; 
The Moon is not more pure 

That shines alott, while through the wood 

She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 
Her melancholy lure ! 

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 

And owls alone are waking, 
In white array'd, glides on the Maid, 

The downward pathway taking, 
That leads her to the torrent's side 

And to a holly bower : 
By whom on this still night descried? 
By whom in that lone place espied ? 

By thee, Sir Eglamore! 

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 

His coming step has thwarted, [vows, 
Beneath the boughs that heard their 

Within whose shade they parted. — 
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see! 

Perplex'd her fingers seem. 
As if they from the holly tree 
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 

Flung from her to the stream. 

What means the Spectre ? Why intent 

To violate the Tree, 
Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 

Unfiiding constancy ? 
Here am I, and to-mOrrow's Sun, 

To her I left, shall prove 
That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
As when a circuit has been run 

Of valour, truth, and love. 

So, from the spot whereon he stood. 

He moved with stealthy pace ; 
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye. 

He recognised the face ; [small, 

And whispers caught, and speeches 

Some to the green-leaved tree, 
Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall : 
" Roar on, and bring him with thy call; 

I heard, and so may He ! " 

Soul-shatter'd w\as the Knight, nor knew 

If Emma's Ghost it were. 
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 

Her very self stood there. 
He touch'd ; what follow^'d who shall tell ? 

The soft touch snapp'd the thread 
Of slumber; shrieking back she fell, 



112 



WOEDSWOKTH. 



And the Stream wiilrl'd her down the deil 
Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the Knight! When on Urm 
grouud 

The rescued iMaiden lay, 
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 

Confusion pass'd away ; 
Slie heard, ere to the throne of grace 

Her faithful Spirit flew. 
His voice, — beheld his speaking face ; 
And, dying, from his own embrace 

She felt that he was true. 

So he was reconciled to life : 

Brief Avords may speak the rest: 
Within the dell he built a cell, 

And there was Sorrow's guest; 
In hermit's weeds repose he found, 

From vain temptations free; 
Beside the torrent dwelling, — bound 
By one deep heart-controlling sound, 

And awed to piety. 

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course. 

Nor fear memorial lays, [shade, 

Wliere clouds, that spread in solemn 

Are edged with golden rays ! 
Dear art thou to the light of heaven, 

Though minister of sorrow; 
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; 
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 

Shalt take thy place with Yarrow ! » 

[18;i3, 

ODE, 

COMPOSED OX MAY ilOKXIXG. 

While from the purpling East departs 
The star that led the dawn, 



9 This delectable poem, so steeped in 
the purest gi-ace of romance, shows what 
the author could do at the age of sixty- 
three. For the story of it, he had a slight 
hint, related in his notes as follows: 
•' While we were making an excursion in 
this part of the Lake District, we heard 
that Mr. Glover, the artist, while lodging 
at Lyulph's Tower, had been disturbed 
by a'loud shriek, and upon rising he had 
leai-nt that it had come from a young 
woman in the house who was in the' habit 
of walkuig in her sleep. In that state she 
had gone down stairs, and, while attempt- 
ing to open tiie outer door, either from 
some difliculty or the efl'ect of the cold 
stone upon her feet, had uttered the cry 
whicli alarmed liim. It seemed to us all 
that this might serve as a hint for a poem," 
&c. — The persons here included under 
the pronoun v:e were Sir George Beau- 
mont and Rogers the poet. 



Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 

For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glco, 

Foreran th' expected Power, [fc:-ee. 

Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and 

Shakes off that pearly shower.i 

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 

Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 

Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 

The tremulous heart excite ; 
And hums the balmy air to still 

The balance of delight. 

Time was, blest Power ! when youths and 

At peep of dawn would rise, [maids 
And wander forth, in forest glades 

Tliy birth to solemnize. 
Though mute the song, — to grace the rite 

Untouch'd the hawthorn bough. 
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; 

Man changes, but not Thou ! 

Thy feather'd Lieges bill and wings 

In love's disport employ; 
Warm'd by thy influence, creeping things 

Awako to silent joy : 
Queen art thou still for each gay plant 

"NAliei'c the slim Avild deer roves; 2 
And served in depths where fishes haunt 

Theii- own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak and trackless heath 

Instinctive homage pay ; 
Nor wants the dim-lit ca\'e a wreath 

To honour thee, sweet May ! 
Where cities ftinu'd by thy brisk airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest flower-pot-nursUng dares 

To open a bright eye. 



1 Tlie meaning here is somewhat hid- 
den. The " freshening glee," I take it, is 
a lieavy doAV or a i-ain, which impearled 
"bush and tree" with drops of water. 
The " expected Power " is ^lay-Day dawn ; 
and the " first-drawn breath " is the breeze 
wliich, started by the i-ising Sun, shakes 
off those drops of dew or rain. 

2 The poet is here illustrating the ubi- 
quitous virtue of May: her revivifying 
eflicacy penetrates the deepest and thick- 
est forests, where the shyest and timidest 
animals seek to hide themselves. — Observe 
how the clogged expression of this line, 
owing to the two spondees, " Slim wild 
deer roves," images the difficulty of mov- 
ing in a dense and tangled forest. 



TO MAY. 



113 



And if, ou this thy natal mom, 

The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song and dance and game ; 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest. 
Wherever peace is on the brow, 

Or love within the breast. 

Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 

The soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride, 

The bashful freed from fear, 
While rising, like the ocean-tide, 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 

The service to prolong : 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Entrusts th' imperfect song ; 
His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 

Throughout the live-long day 
Till the first silver star appear, 

The sovereignty of May.s 



TO MAY. 
Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And Bards, who hail'd thee, may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
There are who to a biithday strain 

Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odours ! music sweet, 

Too sweot to pass away I 
O, for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire, — a lay 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold. 

And Winter's dreariest hour. 



3 This and the following poem origina- 
ted in the lines, " How delicate the leafy 
veil," &c. — My daughter and I leftRydal 
Mount upon a tour through our mountains 
with My. and Mrs. Carr in the month of 
May, 1826; and as we Avere going up the 
vale of Kewlands 1 was struck with the 
appearance of the little chapel gleaming 
through the veil of half-opened leaves; 
and the feeling then conveyed to my mind 
was expressed in the stanza referred to 
above. — A uthor's Notes. 



Eai-th, sea, thy presence feel; nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 

The heavens have felt it too. 
The inmost heart of man if glad 

Partakes a livelier cheer; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brighten'd tear. 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 

Of hope that grew by stealth. 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health ! 
The Old, by thee revived, have said, 

" Another year Is ours ; " 
And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed. 

Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers? 
The tender Infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But noM% when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His Mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground; 
Xo cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favours may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest. 
Thou and thy train are proud to look. 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, " Come! 
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 

The happiest for your home ; [spread 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head. 

And on your turf-clad graves I " 

Such greeting heard, away with sighs 

For lilies that must fade. 
Or " the rathe primrose as it dies 

Forsaken " in the shade ! * 
Vernal fruitions and desires 

Are linked in endless chase ; 
Wliile, as one kindl}- gi-owth retires, 

Another takes its place. 



4 The quotation here made is from Mil- 
ton's Lficidrus, — «' Bring the rathe primrobe 
that forsaken dies." — Rathe is early. 



114 



WORDSWORTH. 



And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 

Mishap by wonn and blight ; 
If expectations newly blown 

Have pevish'd in thy sight; 
If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 

Were caught as in a snare : 
Such is the lot of all the young, 

However bright and fair. 

Lo ! Streams that April could not check 

Are patient of thy rule ; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break, 

Loitering in glassy pool : 
By thee, thee only, could be sent 

Such gentle mists as glide, 
Curling with unconflrm'd intent. 

On that green mountain's side. 

How delicate the leafy veil 

Through which yon house of God 
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 

By few but shepherds trod ! 
And lowlj' huts, near beaten ways, 

No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 

Peep forth, and are admired. 

Season of fancy and of hope, 

Pei-mit not for one hour, 
A blossom from thy cro-svn to drop. 

Nor add to it a flower! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 

Of self-restraining art. 
This modest charm of not too much, 

Part seen, imagined part! 

[182&-1834. 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF 
BROUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON THE KESTORATION^ OF LORD CUF- 

FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE 

ESTATES AND HONOURS 

OF HIS ANCESTORS. 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel 
sate, [Song. 

And Emont's murmur mingled with the 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long : 

"From town to town, from tower to 

tower, 
Tlie Red Rose is a gladsome flower. 
Her thirty years of Winter past. 
The Red Rose is revived at last; 
She lilts her head for endless spring, 



For everlasting blossoming : 

Both Roses flourish. Red and White: 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old ti-oublcs now are ended, s — 

Joy! joy to both! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array I 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

From every corner of the hall ; 

But chiefly from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Cliflbrd to his own restored! [shield ; 

They came with banner, spear, and 
And it was proved in Boswoi'th-fleld. 
Not long th' Avenger was withstood, — 
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood : « 
Saint George was for us, and the might 
Of blessM Angels crown'd the right. 
Loud voice the Land has utter'd forth, 
We loudest in the faithful North : 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
Oi;r streams proclaim a welcoming; 
Our strong-abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at this hour, 
Though lonely, a deserted Tower; 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and 

groom : 
We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon, though the sleej* 
Of years be on her ! She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Bi-ough, right glad, I deem. 
Beside her little humble stream; 
And she that keepeth watch and ward 
Her statelier Eden's course to guard; 
They both are happy at this hour. 
Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side. 
This day, distinguish'd without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer, — 
Him, and his Lady-mother dear! 



5 The Houses of Lancaster and York, 
severally represented by the Red Rose 
and the Wliite, Avcre united, alter the fall 
of Richard the Third, by the marriage of 
Henry the Seventh with Elizabeth, the 
daughter of Edward the Fourth. 

6 This line is from a poem, entitled 
The Battle of Bnm-orth. Field, by Sir Johu 

. Beaumont, brother of the celebrated dra- 
I matist. 



BROUGHAM CASTLE. 



115 



O, it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born I — 
Give her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infiint die 1 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
Who will take them from the light? — 
Yonder is a man in sight, — 
Yonder is a house, — but where? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks, 
To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
She is speechless, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies : 
* Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 
Maid and Mother undefiled, 
Save a Mother and her Child ! ' 

Now who is he that bounds with joy 
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that 

pass 
Light as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither came 
In Secret, like a smother'd flame? [shed 
O'er whom such thankful tears were 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread! 
God loves the Child; and God hath 
will'd [flll'd. 

That those dear words should be ful- 
The Lady's words, when forced away, 
The last she to her Babe did say : 
'My own, my own, thy FeUow-guest 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest. 
For lov.'lj' shepherd's Ufe is best ! ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from Mosedale's 

groves. 
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,9 
And qiiit the flowers that Simimer 

brings 
To Glenderamakin's loftj^ springs ; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turn'd to heaviness and fear. — 
Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! 
Hear it, good man, old in days! 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 
For this young Bii'd that is distrest; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And lie was free to sport and play, 
When tlilcons were abroad for prey. 



9 Blencnthara is the old and proper 
name of the mountain vulgarly called 

Saddichack. 



A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Cliflbrd's ear! 
I said, when evil men are strong, 
No life is good, no pleasure long, — 
A Aveak and cowardly untruth ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thanliful through a weary time, 
That brought him up to manhood's 
Again he wanders forth at will, [prime, 
And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not fi'iends for simple glee, 
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear; 
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
Stoop'd down to pay him fealty; 
And both th' undying fish that swim 
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on 
The pair were servants of his eye [him :i 
In their immortality ; 
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright. 
Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
He knew the rocks which ^ingels hauiit 
Upon the mountains visitant; 
He hath kenn'd them taking wing : 
And into caves where Fairies sing 
He hath enter'd ; and been told 
By Voices how men lived of old. 
Among the heavens his eye can see 
The face of thing that is to be; 
And, if that men report him right, 
His tongue could whisper words of 
Now another day is come, [might. 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom : 
He hath thrown aside his crook. 
And hath buried deep his book; 
Armour rusting in his halls 
On the blood of Clifford calls ; 2 — 
' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance ; 
« Bear me to the heart of France,' 



1 It was imagined by the people of the 
country that there were two imraortal 
Fish dwelling in this tarn, which lies in 
the mountains not far from Threlkeld. 
Tarn is a small mountain lake. 

2 The four immediate progenitors of 
the person in whose hearing this is sup- 
posed to be spoken all died in the field. 
Several others of the fi^mily perished in 
the same manner. The Cliffords, indeed, 
of Cumberland were famed for their mar- 
tial spirit, and were distinguished for 
fierceness even in that fierce age. 



116 



WOEDSWOKTH. 



Is the longing of the Shield : 

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; 

Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victoiy ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 

When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mail'd and horsed, with lance and 

To liis ancestors restored [sword, 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar. 

First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas! th' impassion'd minstrel did not 
know [framed, 

That for a tranquil soul the Lay was 

Who, long compell'd in humble walks to 
go, [tamed. 

Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and 

Love had he found in huts where poor 
men lie ; [rills, 

His daily teachers had been woods and 
The silence that is in the starry sky, 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 

dead ; 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage- 
heai'th ; [and more ; 

The Shepherd-lord was honour'd more 
And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
" The good Lord Clifford " was the name 
he bore.3 [1S07. 



3 Henry Lord Clifford, the subject of 
this grand lyric, was the son of John Lord 
Cliflbx'd, who Avas slain in the battle of 
Towton, 14G1. This John Avas the person 
who, after the battle of Wakefield, UfiO, 
slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of 
Rutland, son to the Duke of York, who fell 
in that battle. Independent of this act, at 
best a cruel and savage one, the family of 
Clifford had done enough to draw upon 
them the vehement hatred of the House 
of York ; so that after the Battle of Tow- 
ton thei-e was no hope for them but in 
flight and concealment. Henry, the sub- 
ject of the Poem, was deprived of his es- 
tate and honours during the space of 
twenty -four years ; all which time he lived 
as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Ci^mber- 
land, where the estate of his Father-in-law 
(Sir Lancelot Thrclkeld) lay. He was re- 
stored to his estate and honours in the 
first year of Heniy the Seventh. It is re- 
corded tliat, "when called to Parliament, 
he behaved nobly and wisely; l)ut other- 



THE PASB OF KIRKSTONE. 

Within the mind strong fancies work, 
A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
Oft as I pass along the fork 
Of these fraternal hills : 
Where, save the rugged road, we find 
No appanage of human kind, 
Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
Seem not his handiwork to mock 
By something cognizably shaped; 
Mockeiy — or model raughly hcAvn, 
And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
Or from the Flood escaped : 
Altars for Druid service fit; 
(But where no fire was ever lit, 
Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
Thence offer nightly sacrifice ;) 
Wrinkled Egyptian monument; 
Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; 
Tents of a camp that never shall be 
raised, — [gazed! 

On which four thousand years have 

II. 

Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes t 

Ye snoAv-white lambs that trip 

Imprisou'd 'mid the formal props 

Of restless OAvnership! 

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 

To feed th' insatiate Prodigal ! [fields, 

LaAvns, houses, chattels, groves, and 

All that the fertile valley shields; 

Wages of folly, — baits of ci-ime, 

Of life's uneasy game the stake, 

Playthings that keep the eyes awake 

Of droAvsy , dotard Time ; — 

O cai-e ! O guilt! — O vales and plains, 



wise came seldom to London or the Court ; 
and rather delighted to live in the coun- 
try, Avhere he repaired several of his Cas- 
tles, which had gone to decay during the 
late troubles." There is a tradition cur- 
rent in the village of Threlkeld and its 
neighbourhood, his principal retreat, 
that, in the course of his shepherd-life, 
he had acquired great astronomical knoAvl- 
edge. I cannot conclude this note Avith- 
out adding a Avord touching the feudal 
Edifices, spoken of in the Poem. The 
Cliffords had ahvays been distinguished 
for an honourable px'ide in these Castles; 
and, after the Avars of York and Lancas- 
ter, they Avex-e x-ebuilt; in the civil AA'ars 
of Charles the First they Avere again laid 
Avaste, and agaixx restored almost to their 
former magnificence by the celebi-ated 
Lady Anxxe Clifl'ord, Countess of Pem- 
broke. 



TO ENTERPRISE. 



iir 



Here» 'mul his o^^rtx unvex'd domains, 
A Genius dwells, that cau subdue 
At ouce all memory of You, — 
Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
Mists that distort and magnify; 
While the coarse rushes, to the sweep- 
ing breeze, 
Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 

III. 

List to those shriller notes! — that march 
Perchance was on the blast, [arch, 

When, through this Height's inverted 
Rome's earliest legion pass'd ! — 
They saw, adventurously impell'd, 
And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
This block, — and yon, whose church-like 

frame 
Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
Aspiring Road! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapoury bourn. 
Not seldom may the hour return 
When thou shalt be my guide : 
And I (as all men may find cause. 
When life is at a weary pause, 
And they have panted up the hill 
Of duty with reluctant Avill) 
Be thankful, even though tired and faint. 
For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 

IV. 

My Soul was gi-ateful for delight 

That woi'e a threatening brow; 

A veil is lilted, — can she slight 

The scene that opens now ? 

Though habitation none appear 

The greenness tells, man must be there; 

The shelter, — that the perspective 

Is of the clime in Avhich we live ; 

Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 

Where Pity sheds sweet tears ; and Love, 

In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 

Inflicts his tender wound.— 

Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below; 

Nor can he guess hoAv lightly leaps 

The brook adown the rocky steeps. — 

Parewell, thou desolate Domain ! 

Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 

Carols like a shepherd-boy; 

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ? 

Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 

Smoothly skims the meadows wide; 



While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
To hill and vale proclaims aloud, [ed dare, 
" Whate'er the weak may dread, the Avick- 
Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion 
fair!"* [1817. 



TO ENTERPRISE. 
Keep for the Young th' impassion'd smile 
Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee 

stand 
High on that chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, 
A slender volume grasping in thy hand, — 
(Perchance the pages that relate 
The various turns of Crusoe's fate,) — 
Ah, spare th' exulting smile. 
And drop thy pointing finger bright 
As the first flash of beacon light ; 
But neither veil thy head in shadows dim. 
Nor turn thy face away 
From One who, in the evening of his day, 
To thee would offer no presumptuous 

hymn I 



Bold Spirit! who art free to rove 
Among the starry courts of Jove, 
And oft in splendour dost appear 
Embodied to poetic eyes, 
Wliile traversing this nether sphere, 
Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 
Daughter of Hope I her favourite Child, 
Whom she to young Ambition bore, 
WTien Hunter's arrow first defiled 
The grove, and stain'd the turf with gore; 
Thee wingfed Fancy took, and nursed 
On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, 
And where the mightier Waters burst 
From caves of Indian mountains hoar! 
She wrapp'd thee in a panther's skin; 
And Thou, thy favourite food to win, 
The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
From her rock fortress in mid air, 
With infant shout; and often sweep, 
Pair'd with the ostrich, o'er the plain; 
Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
With rolling years thy strength increased ; 
And, far beyond thy native East, 
To thee, by varying titles known 
As variously thy power was shown. 



4 Thoughts and feelings of many walks 
in all weathers, by day and night, over 
this Pass, alone, and with beloved friends. 

— Author's Notes. 



118 



WORDSWORTH. 



Did iucense-bearing altars rise, 
Which caught the blaze of sacriflce, 
From suppliants panting for the skies ! 

II. 
AVTiat though this ancient Earth be trod 
No more by step of Demi-god 
Mounting from gloiious deed to deed, 
As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 
Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
And the hush'd farewell of an eye, 
Where no procrastinating gaze 
A last infirmity betrays, 
Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
By thy divinity impell'd, 
The Stripling seeks the tented field ; 
Th' aspiring Virgin kneels; and, pale 
With awe, receives the hallow'd veil, 
A soft and tender Heroine 
Vow'd to severer discipline : 
Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
Makes of the Avhistliug shrouds a toy, 
And of the ocean's dismal breast 
A plaj'-ground, — or a couch of rest : 
'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 
Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
By chasm or dizzy precipice : 
And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
HoAV soaring mortals glide between 
Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
With bolder than Icarian flight? » 
How they, in bells of crystal, dive, 
(Where winds and waters cease to strive,) 
For no unholy visitings, 
Among the monsters of the Deep; 
And all the sad and precious things 
Which tliere in ghastly silence sleep? 
Or, adverse tides and currents headed. 
And breathless calms no longer dreaded. 
In never-slackening voyage go 
Straight as an arrow fi'om the bow ; 



5 Alluding, of course, to the bold spirit 
of Enterprise as displayed in balloon-voj'- 
aging, — The unclassical reader may like 
to be told that Icarus was the son of that 
wonderful mechanic, Dsedalus, whose tri- 
umphs of ingenuity caised him to be im- 
])risoned by Minos. Being released by 
Pasiphae, to aid his flight from Minos, he 
procured wings for himself and his son, 
and fastened them on Avith wax. In their 
flight, the youngster, being something 
over-bold, flew too near the Sun, so that 
the wax was melted, and lie fell down into 
what was thence called the Icarian sea. 



And, Blighting sails and scorning oars, 
Keep faith with Time on distant shores ?— 
Within our fearless reach are placed 
The secrets of the burning Waste; 
Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
Thou speak'st, — and, lo! the polar Seas 
Unbosom their last mysteries. — [reward. 
But, O! what ti-ansports, what sublime 
Won from the world of mind, dost thou 

prepare 
For philosophic Sage ; or high-souled Bard 
Who, for thy service train'd in lonely 
woods, [the air, 

Hath fed on pageants floating throiigh 
Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; " 
Nor grieves, — though doom'd thro' silent 

night to bear 
The domination of his glorious themes. 
Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 

III. 
If there be movements in the Patriot's 
soul, [worth, 

From source still deeper, and of higher 
'Tis thine the quickening impulse to con- 
trol. 
And in due season send the mandate forth : 
Thy call a prosti-ate Nation can restore. 
When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 
no more. 

IV. ' 

Dread Minister of wrath I 
Who to their destined punishment dost 
urge [harden'd heart! 

The Pharaohs of the Earth, the men of 
Not unassisted by the flattering stars. 
Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
When they in pomp depart 



6 This is the only instance I remember 
to have met Avith of calenture thus used as 
a verb. The Avord properly means a fever, 
and hence is put for the furious delirium 
or frenzy caused by the heat of the tropi- 
cal sun at sea, Avhich often leads sailors to 
tliroAV themselves into tlie Avater. Tlie 
sense of the word in this place may be 
gathered from a passage in SAvift's iHouth. 
Sea Project, 1721 : 
" So, by a calenture misled. 
The mariner Avith I'apture sees, 
On the smooth ocean's azure bed, 
Enamell'd flelds and verdant trees: 
With eager hai^tc lie longs to rove 
In that lantastic scene, and thinks 
It must be some enchanted grove : 
And in he leaps and doAvn he sinks." 



TO EKTEEPEISE. 



119 



With trampling horses and refulgent cars, 
Soon to be swallow'd by the briny surge ; 
Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown 

strands ; 
Or caught amidawhii-1 of desert sands, — 
An Army now, and now a living liill 
That a brief while heaves with convulsive 

throes, — 

Then all is still; 
Or, to forget their madness and their woes, 
Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless 

snows ! 

V. 

Back flows the willing current of my Song : 
If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
Why shoulil it daunt a blameless prayer? 
Bold Goddess! range our Youth among; 
Kor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
In hearts no longer young : 
Still may a veteran Few have pride 
In thoughts whose sternness makes them 

sweet; 
In flx'd I'esolves by Reason justified ; 
That to their object cleave like sleet 
Whitening a pine tree's northern side, 
WTien fields ai'e naked far and wide, 
And wither'd leaves, from earth's cold 

breast 
Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can 

find rest. 

VI. 

But, if such homage thou disdain 

As doth with mellowing years agree. 

One rarely absent from thy train 

More humble favours may obtain 

For thy contented Votary. 

She, who incites the frolic lambs 

In presence of their heedless dams, 

And to the solitary fawn 

Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nj^mph 



7 So Milton, in II Penseroso, addressing 
the nightingale : 

" Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of 
folly, 

Most musical, most melandwly ! " 
Coleridge, also, in his Nightingale, repu- 
diates the epithet : 

" A melancholy bird I O, idle thought ! 

In Nature there is nothing melancholy." 



That wakes the breeze, the sparkling 
Doth hurry to the lawn ; [lymph 

She, who inspires that strain of joyance 

holy [ancho]y,7 

Which the sweet Bird, misnamed themel- 
Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead 

for me ; 
And vernal mornings opening bright 
With views of undefin'd delight, 
And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
On bxisy days, with thankful nights, be 

mine. 

VII. 

But thou, O Goddess! in thy favourite 
(Freedom's impregnable redoubt, [IsJe, 
The wide Earth's store-house fenced 

about 
With breakers roaring to the gales 
That stretch a thousand thousand sails,) 
Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! 
Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 
Glad Hope woidd almost cease to be 
If torn from thy society; 
And Love, when worthiest of his name, 
Is proud to walk the Earth wdth Thee! 



Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound, 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for sound ! 

Unsolicited reply 
To a babbling wanderer sent; 
Like her ordinary cry, 
Like, — but, O, how different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life? — 
Hear not we, unthinking Ci-eatures ! 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
Voices of tAvo difl'erent natures ? 

Have not we too? — yes, we liave 
Answers, and we know not whence; 
Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognised intelligence ! 

Such reboinids our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar; 
Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
For of God, — of God they are. [1806. 



120 WORDSWOETH. 

THE EGYPTIAN MAID; \ 

OR, j 

THE ROMAJfCE OF THE WATER-LILY." | 

[For the names and persons in the followingr poem, see the "History of the re- t 

nowned Prince Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table ; " for the rest the Author ■ 

is answerable; only it maybe proper to add, that the Lotus, with the bust of the , 
Goddess appearing to rise out of the flull-hlown flower, was suggested by the beau- 
tiful work of ancient art, once included among the Townley Marbles, and" now in the 

Bi-itish Museum.] , 

While Merlin paced the Cornisli sands, \ 

Forth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, ! 

The pleased Enchanter was aware | 

Of a bright Ship that seem'd to hang in air ; I 

Yet was she work of mortal hands, ] 
And took from men her name, The Water-Lily. 

Soft was the wind that landward blew ; 
And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, 

Grows from a little edge of light I 

To a full orb, this Pinnace bright j 

Became, as nearer to the coast she drew, ' 

More glorious, with spread sail and streaming pendant. i 

Upon this winged Shape so fair i 

Sage Merlin gazed with admiration : ! 

Her lineaments, thought he, surpass .■ 

Aught that was ever shown in magic glass ; ', 

Was ever built with patient care ; j 
Or, at a touch, produced by happiest transformation. 

Hi 

Now, though a Mechanist whose skill j 

Shames the degenerate grasp of modern science, :^ 

Grave Merlin (and belike the more ^ 

Eor practising occult and perilous lore) 1 

Was subject to a freakish will ,i 
That sapp'd good thoughts, or scared them with defiance. 

Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
An alter'd look upon th' advancing Stranger 
Whom he had hail'd with joy, and cried, 
" My Art shall help to tame her pride : " 
Anon the breeze became a blast, 
And the waves rose, and sky portended danger. 

8 This poem rose out of a few words casually used in conversation by my nephew, 
Henry Hutchinson. He was describing Avith great spirit the appearance and move- 
ment of a vessel which he seemed to admire more than any otlier he had ever seen, 
and said her name was the Water-Lily. This plant has been my delight from my 
boyhood, as I have seen it floating on the lake; and that conversation put me upon 
constructing and composing the poem. Had I not heard those words, it would never 
have been written. — Author's Notes. 



THE EGYPTIAK MAID. 121 ; 

With tlirilling word, and potent sign 
Traced on the beach, his work the Sorcerer nrges ; 

The clonds in blacker clouds are loot, ; 

Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, cross'd ; 

By Fiends of aspect more malign ; ; 
And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer scourges. 

But worthy of the name she bore I 

Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley; \ 

Supreme in loveliness and grace ^ j 

Of motion, whether in th' embrace I 
Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 

The main flood roughen'd into hill and valley. ] 

Behold, how wantonly she laves 
Her sides, the Wizard's craft confounding ; 

Like something out of Ocean sprung i 

To be for ever fresh and young, ' 

Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves ' 

Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebounding! ; 

But Ocean under magic heaves, 
And cannot spare the Thing he cherish'd : 

All ! what avails that she was fair, i 
Luminous, blithe, and debonair ? 

The storm has stripp'd her of her leaves; \ 

The Lily floats no longer ! — she hath perish'd. .: 

Grieve for her,^she deserves no less ; j 

So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! ' 

No heart had she, no busy brain ; " 
Though loved, she could not love again; 
Though pitied, feel her own distress ; 

Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of Nature. i 

Yet is there cause for gushing tears, ] 

So richly was this Galley laden : | 
A fairer than herself she bore, 

And, in her struggles, cast ashore ; j 

A lovely One, who nothing hears '] 

Of wind or wave, — a meek and guileless Maiden. i 

Into a cave had Merlin fled \ 

From mischief caused by spells himself had mutter'd ; j 

And while, repentant all too late, j 

In moody posture there he sate, ] 

He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, ' 
A Visitant by whom these words were utter'd : 



122 WORDSWOKTH. 

" On Cliristian service this frail Bark i 

SaiFd (hear me. Merlin !) under high protection, | 
Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 

Was carved, — a Goddesss with a Lily flower, I 

The old Egyptian's emhlematic mark \ 

Of joy immortal and of pure affection. -j 

Her course was for the British strand ; ' 

Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless : | 

God reigns ahove, and Spirits strong 

May gather to avenge this wrong ■ 

Done to the Princess, and her Land, 
Which she in duty left, sad but not cheerless. 

i 

And to Caerleon's loftiest tower ; 

Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table ; 

A cry of lamentation send ; i 

And all will weep who there attend, j 

To grace that Stranger's bridal hour, ] 

For whom the sea was made unnavigable. | 

Shame ! should a Child of royal line I 

Die through the blindness of thy malice V^ i 

Thus to the jSTecromancer spake 3 

Nina, the Lady of the Lake, ^ 

A gentle Sorceress, and benign, ' 

Who ne'er embitter'd any good man's chalice. ^ 

1 
" What boots," continued she, " to mourn ? 

To expiate thy sin endeavour : 
From the bleak isle where she is laid, 
Fetch'd by our art, th' Egyptian Maid 
May yet to Arthur's Court be borne, 
Cold as she is, ere life be fled for ever. 

My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 
That brought me down that sunless river. 
Will bear me on from wave to wave. 
And back with her to this sea-cave ; — 
Then, Merlin, for a rapid flight 
Through air, to thee my Charge will I deliver. 

The very swiftest of thy cars 
Must, when my part is done, be ready ; 
Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
Into thy own prophetic book ; 
And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
To learn thy course; farewell 1 be prompt and steady." 



THE EGYPTIAN" MAID. 133 

This scarcely spoken, slie again 
"Was seated in her gleaming shallop, 
That o'er the yet-distemperd Deep 
Pursued its way with bird-like sweep, 
Or like a steed, without a rein. 
Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 

Soon did the gentle Mna reach 
That Isle without a house or haven ; 
Landing, she found not what she sought, 
Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 
By the fierce waves, a flower in marble graven. 

Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
For gently each from each retreating 
With backward curve, the leaves reveal'd 
The bosom half, and half conceal'd, 
Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
On Nina, as she pass'd, with hopeful greeting. 

No quest was hers of vague desire. 
Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
Following the margin of a bay, 
She spied the lonely Cast-away, 
TJnmarr'd, unstripp'd of her attire, 
But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom forsaken. 

Then Nina, stooping down, embraced. 
With tenderness and mild emotion. 
The Damsel, in that trance embound ; 
And, while she raised her from the ground. 
And in the pearly shallop placed. 
Sleep fell upon the air, and still'd the ocean. 

The turmoil hush'd, celestial springs 
Of music open'd, and there came a blending 
Of fragrance, underived from Earth, 
With gleams that owed not to the Sun their birth. 
And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
Which Angels make, on works of love descending. 

And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
Than if the Goddess of the flower had spoken : 
" Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what none 
Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success betoken." 



124 WORDSWOKTH. 

So cheer'd, she left that Island bleak, 
A bare rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
And, us they traversed the smooth brine. 
The self-ilhimined Brigantine 
Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan cheek 
And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 

Fleet was their course, and when they came 
To the dim cavern, whence the river 
Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
Merlin, as hx'd in thought he stood. 
Was thus accosted by the Dame : 
"Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver! 

But where attends thy chariot, — where ? " — 
Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden. 
So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
My vehicle shall j^rove : — precious Charge ! 
If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how^ fair ! 
Much have my books disclosed, but th' end is hidden." 

He spake ; and gliding into view 
Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 
Came two mute Swans, whose plumes of dusky white 
Changed, as the pair approach'd the light, 
Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
(Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 

Once more did gentle Nina lift 
The Princess, passive to all changes : 
The car received her : — then up-went 
Into th' ethereal element 
The birds with progress smooth and swift 
As thought, when through bright regions memory ranges. 

Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
Instructs the Swans their way to measure ; 
And soon Caerleon's towers appear'd. 
And notes of minstrelsy were heard 
From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
For some high day of long-ex j)ected pleasure. 

Awe-stricken stood both Knights and Dames 
Ere on firm ground the car alighted ; 
Eftsoons astonishment was past, 
For in that face they saw the last, 
Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
All pride ; by which all happiness is blighted. 



THE EGYPTIAN" MAID. 125 

Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
Away with feast and tilt and tourney! 
Yc saw, throughout tliis royal House, 
Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 

Lo ! by a destiny well known 
To mortals, joy is turn'd to sorrow; 
This is the wish'd-for Bride, the Maid 
Of Egypt, from a rock convey'd 
Where she by shij^ wreck had been thrown; 
111 sight ! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." 

" Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
Exclaim'd the King, *',a mockery hateful: 
Dutiful Child, her lot how hard ! 
Is this her piety's reward ? 
Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
winds without remorse! shore ungrateful! 

Eich robes are fretted by the moth ; 
Tow^ers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder; 
Will that, or deej^er thoughts, abate 
A Father's sorrow for her fate ? 
He will repent him of his troth ; 
His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder. 

Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 
For, when my prowess from invading Neighbours 
Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
And his dear Daughter on a Knight bestow 
Whom I should choose for love and matchless labours. 

Her birth was heathen ; but a fence 
Of holy Angels round her hover'd: 
A Lady added to my Court, 
So fair, of such divine report 
And worship, seem'd a recompense 
For fifty kingdoms by my sword recover'd. 

Ask not for whom, Champions true ! 
She was reserved by me her life's betrayer ; 
She who was meant to be a bride 
Is now a corse : then put aside 
Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance due 
Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her." 



126 WORDSWORTH. 

" The tomb," said Merlin, " may not close 
Upon lier yet, earth hide her beauty; 
Not froward to thy sovereign will 
Esteem me, Liege'! if I, whose skill 
Wafted her hither, interpose 
To check this pious haste of erring duty. 

My books command me to lay bare 
The secret thou art bent on keeping; 
Here must a high attest be given. 
What Bridegroom was for her ordain'd by Heaven : 
And in my glass significants there are 
Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. 

For this, approaching. One by One, 
Thy Knights must touch the cold hand of the Virgin ; 
So, for the favour'd One, the Flower may bloom 
Once more: but, if unchangeable her doom, 
If life departed be for ever gone. 
Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, 

May teach him to bewail his loss ; 
Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises 
And melts ; but grief devout that shall endure. 
And a perpetual growth secure 
Of purposes which no false thought shall cross, 
A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." 

" So be it," said the King ; — " anon, 
Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial ; 
Knights, each in order as ye stand, 
Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 
Sir Agravaine advanced ; no sign he won 
From Heaven or earth ; — Sir Kaye had like denial. 

Abash'd, Sir Dinas turn'd away ; 
Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure ; 
Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere 
He reach'd that ebon car, the bier 
Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel lay, 
Full thrice had cross'd himself in meek composure. 

Imagine (but, ye Saints ! who can ?) 
How in still air the balance trembled, — 
The wishes, peradventure the despites 
That overcame some not ungenerous Knights ; 
And all the thoughts that lengthen'd out a span 
Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assembled. 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 127 

What patient confidence was here ! 
And there how many bosoms panted ! 
While drawing toward the car Sir Gawaine, maiPd 
For tournament, his beaver vaird,' 
And softly touch'd ; but to his princely cheer 
And high expectancy no sign was granted. 

Next, disencumber'd of his harp, 
Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother, 
Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued 
No change : — the fair Izonda he had woo'd 
With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, 
From hope too distant, not to dread another. 

Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's grace 
A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition : 
The royal Guinever look'd passing glad 
When his touch fail'd. — Next came Sir Galahad; 
He paused, and stood entranced by that still face 
Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. 

For late, as near a murmuring stream 
He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady, 
Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
A light around his mossy bed; 
And, at her call, a waking dream 
Prefigured to his sense th' Egyptian Lady. 

Now, while his bright-hair'd front he bow'd, 
And stood, far-kenn'd by mantle f urr'd with ermine. 
As O'er th' insensate Body hung 
Th' enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
Belief sank deep into the crowd 
That he the solemn issue would determine. 

Nor deem it strange : the Youth had worn 
That very mantle on a day of glory, 
The day when he achieved that matchless feat. 
The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
Which whosoe'er approach'd of strength was shorn. 
Though King or Knight the most renown'd in story. 

He touch'd with hesitating hand, — 

And, lo ! those Birds, far-famed through Love's dominions. 

The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; 

9 That is, drew his beaver down. The beaver was a part of the helmet that covered 
the face, but hung on hinges at the ears, so that it could at pleasure be set up over 
the forehead or drawn down over the face. — Vailed is lowered. — Both words are often 
60 used by Shakespeare. 



128 



WORDSWORTH. 



And their necks play, involved in rings, 
Like sinless snakes in Eden's bappy land ; — [pinions. 
"Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again they clapp'd their 

"Mine was she, — mine she is, though dead, 
And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow : " 
Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
Of colour dawn'd upon the Damsel's cheek ; 
And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, 
Seem'd from each other a faint warmth to borrow. 

Deep was the awe, the rapture high, 
Of love embolden'd, hope with dread entwining, 
When to the mouth relenting Death 
Allow'd a soft and flower-like breath, 
Precursor to a timid sigh. 
To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 

In silence did King Arthur gaze 
Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; 
In silence watch'd the gentle strife 
Of Nature leading back to life ; 
Then eased his soul at length by praise 
Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen, the blissful Mary. 

Then said he, " Take her to thy heart, 
Sir Galahad ! a treasure that God giveth. 
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
Through mortal change and immortality; 
Be hapj^y and unenvied, thou who art 
A goodly knight that hath no peer that liveth ! " 

Not long the Nuptials were delay'd ; 
And sage tradition still rehearses 
The pomp, the glory of that hour 
When toward the altar from her bower 
King Arthur led th' Egyptian Maid, 
And Ano:els caroll'd these far-echo'd verses : 



Who shrinks not from alliance 
Of evil with good Powers, 
To God proclaims defiance, 
And mocks whom he adores. 

A Ship to Christ devoted 
From the Land of Nile did go ; 
Alas ! the bright Ship floated, 
An Idol at her prow. 



By magic domination, — 
The Heaven-permitted vent 
Of purblind mortal passion, — 
Was wrought licr punishment. 

The Flower, the Form within it, 
What served they in her need? 
Her port she could not win it, 
Nor from mishap be freed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



129 



The tempest overcame her, 
And she Avas seeu no more ; 
But gently, gently blame her,— 
She cast a Pearl ashore. 

The Maid to Jesii hearken'd, 
And kept to Him her laith, 
Till sense in death was darken'd, 
Or sleep akin to death. 



But Angels round her pillow 
Kept watch, a viewless band; 
And, billow favouring billow. 
She reach'd the destined strand. 

Blest Pair! whate'er befall you. 

Your faith in Him approve 

Who from frail Earth can call you 

To bowers of endless love I [1830. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old. 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



[1804. 



THE SPARROW'S NEST. 

Behold, within the leafy shade, 
Those bright blue eggs together laid! 
On me the chance-discover'd sight 
Gleam'd like a vision of delight. 
1 started, seeming to espy 
The home and sheltex-'d bed, 
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
M\' sister Emmeline and I 
Together visited.^ 

She look'd at it and seem'd to fear it ; 
Dreading, thougli wishing, to be near it : 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was ^^•ith mc when a boy : 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
And love, and thought., and joy. 

[ISOl. 



1 The poet speaks of his sister under 
various names. Her real name was Doro- 
thy. See page 64, note 9. The poet's sense 
of obligation to her is remarked upon in 
the aketch of his Life. 



REME3HBRANCE OF COLLINS. 

( Composed upon the Thames, near Richmond.) 

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
O Thames ! that other bards maj' see 
As lovely visions by thy side 
As now, fair river, come to me. 
O glide, fair stream! for ever so. 
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
Till all our minds for ever flow 
As thy deep waters now are flowing. 

Vain thought! — yet be as now thou art, 
That in thy waters may be seen 
The image of a poet's heart, 
How bright, how solemn, how serene! 
Such as did once the Poet bless 
Who, murmuring here a later ditty. 
Could And no refuge from distress 
But in the milder grief of pity .2 

Now let us, as we float along, 
For him suspend the dashing oar, 
And pray that never child of song 
jMaj' know that Poet's sorrows more. 
How calm ! how still ! the only sound. 
The dripping of the oar suspended! '' — 
The evening darkness gathers round 
By virtue's holiest PoAvers attended. 

[1789. 



2 The allusion is to Collius's Ode on the 
Death of Thomson, the last-Avrittcn of the 
author's x)ocms which wei*e published dui'- 
ing his life-time. The scene of that Ode 
is supposed to lie on the Thames, near 
Richinoml. 

3 Here, again, AVordsworth alludes to 
Collins's Ode : 

" Reraeml)rance oft shall haunt the shore. 
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest ; 
And oft suspend tlic dashing oar^ 
To bid his gentle spirit rest! " 



130 



WORDSWORTH. 



LOUISA. 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HEK ON A MOUN- 
TAIN EXCURSION. 

I MET Louisa in the shade, 

And, having seen that lovely Maid, 

■\Vliy should I fear to say 

That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 

And down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May? 

She loves her fire, her cottage-home ; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak; 
And, when against the wind she strains, 
O, might I kiss the mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek ! 

Take all that's mine beneath the Moon, 

If I with her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 

Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 

When up she Avinds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. [1805. 



Strange fits of passion have I known ; 

And I will dare to tell. 

But in the Lover's ear alone, 

What once to me befell : 

"SYhen she I loved look'd every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening Moon. 

Upon the Moon I fix'd my eye. 

All over the wide lea ; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; 
And, as we climb'd the hill. 
The sinking Moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On the descending Moon. 

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof 
He raised, and never stopp'd : 
When down behind the cottage roof, 
At once, the bright Moon dropp'd. 



What fond and wayward thoughts will 
Into a Lover's head ! [slide 

" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
"If Lucy should be dead ! " [1799. 



She dwelt among th' untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, O, 

The difference to me ! [1799. 



I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

AVhat love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 

Nor will I quit thj^ shore 
A second time; for still I, seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights con- 
The bowers where Lucy play'd; [ceal'd 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes survey'd. [1799. 



TO . 

Let other bards of angels sing. 

Bright suns without a spot ; 
But thou art no such perfect thing : 

Rejoice that thou art not! 

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; 

So, Mary, let it be, 
If nought in loveliness compare 

With what thou art to me. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



131 



True beauty d^vells in deep retreats, 

Whose veil is unremoved 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 

And the lover is beloved.* [1824. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

Blithe Xew-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the Yale, 
-Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

Mo bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listen'd to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still long'd for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessfed Bird 1 the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 

An unsubstantial, faeiy place; 

That is fit home for Thee 1 [1804. 



THE LONGEST DAY. 
ADDRESSED TO MT DAUGHTER. 

Let us quit the leafy arbour, 
And the torrent murmuring by; 
For the Sun is in his harbour, 
Weary of the open sky. 



Evening now unbinds the fetters 
Fashion'd by the glowing light; 
AU that breathe are thankful debtors 
To the harbinger of night. 

Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
Eve renews her calm career; 
For the day that now is ended 
Is the longest of the year. 

Dora ! sport, as now thou sportest, 
On this platform, light and free; 
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. 
Are indifferent to thee. 

Who would check the happy feeling 
That inspires the linnet's song? 
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
On her pinions swift and strong? 

Yet, at this impressive season, 
Words which tenderness can speak 
From the truths of homely reason. 
Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 

And, while shades to shades succeeding 
Steal the landscape from the sight, 
I would urge this moral pleading, 
Last forerunner of " Good night ! " 

Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
Is a reflux from on high, 
Tending to the darksome hollows 
Where the frosts of Winter lie. 

He who governs the creation, 
In His providence, assign'd 
Such a gradual declination 
To the life of human kind. 

Yet we mark it not; —fruits redden, 
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have 

blown ; 
And the heart is loth to deaden 
Hopes that she so long hath known. 

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
And, when thy decline shall come. 
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden, 
Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 

XoAV, even npw, ere wrapp'd in slumber, 
Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
That absorbs lime, space, and number; 
Look thou to Eternitv ! 



4 These stanzas are supposed to be ad- ^oUow thou the flowing river 
diessed to the author's wile. | On whose breast are thither borne 



]32 



WOKDSWOETH. 



All deceived, and each deceiver, 
Through the gates of night and morn; 

Through the year's successive portals ; 
Through the bounds Avhich many a star 
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 
When his light returns from far. 

Thus when thou with Time haet travell'd 
Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
And the mazy stream unravell'd 
With thy best imaginings; 

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
Think how pitiful that stay. 
Did not virtue give the meanest 
Charms superior to decay. 

Duty, like a strict preceptor, 
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; 
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, 
While youth's roses are thy crown. 

Grasp it,— if thou shrink and tremble. 
Fairest damsel of the green, 
Thou Avilt lack the only symbol 
That proclaims a genuine queen ; 

And ensures those palms of honour 
Which selected spirits wear. 
Bending low before the Donor, 
Lord of Heaven's unchanging year ! ^ 

[1817. 



LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I cross'd the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door I 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 



•' To-night will be a stormy night,— 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lanteni. Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father, will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon; 
The minster-clock has just struck two. 
And yonder is the Moon ! " 

At this the Father i-aised his hook, 
And snapp'd a fagot-brand ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
She wander'd \ap and down; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reach'd the town. 

The wretched parents ail that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That overlook'd the moor; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept; and, turning homeward, 
" In Heaven we all shall meet ; " [cried, 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's 
They track'd the footmarks small ; [edge 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge. 
And by the long stone-wall; 

And then an open field they cross'd: 
The marks were still the same ; 
They ti'ack'd them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They follow'd from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one. 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none! 



Yet some maintain that to this day 
5 Suggested by my daughter Dora play- gi^g jg .^ jiving child ; 
nig 111 front of Rvdal Mount; and com- ! ^, ^ ^ x /-. 

posed in a great measure the same after- 1 Tliat you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
noon. — Author's Notes. | Upon the lonesome wild. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



133 



O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 

And never looks behmd; 

And sings a solitiiry song 

That whistles in tlic wind.G [1799. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said; 
Pier hair was thick with many a curl 
That cluster'd round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fiiir, and very fair; 
Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
•' How many? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering look'd at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell. 
She answer'd, " Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

Two of us in the church- yard lie, 
Mj- sister and my brother; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
DweU near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the cluirch-yard lie. 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 



6 Founded on a circumstance related 
to me by my sister, of a little girl who, 
not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was 
bewildered in a snow-storm. Her foot- 
steps were traced by her parents to the 
middle of the lock of a canal, and no 
other vestige of her, backward or for- 
ward, could be traced. Her body how- 
ever was found in the canal. — Author's 
Notes. 



" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs thej' are alive : 
If two are in the church-yard laid. 
Then ye are only live." 

" Their graves are green, they may be 
The little Maid rei)l:ed, [seen," 

'• Twelve steps or more from my mother's 
And they are side by side. [door. 

My stockings there I often knit. 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

And often after sun-set, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
1 take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was sister Jane : 
In bed she moaning laj'. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And, Avhen the grass was dry. 
Together roi;nd her grave we play'd, 
My brother John and I. 

And when the ground was white wit'i 
And I could run and slide, [snow, 

My brother John was forced to go ; 
And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in Heaven? " 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
" O Master I we are seven." 

" But they are dead; those two are dead! 
Their spirits are in Heaven ! " — 
•Twas throwing words away; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " ^ [1798. 



7 The author tells us that he composed 
this poem while walking in a grove at Al- 
foxdeu, and that the little girl who is the 
hei'oine was met by him within the area 
of Goodrich Ca stle in 1793. The piece was 
published in the first volume of Lyrical 
Ballad6,lld8. — In his notes, the author 
relates how a friend, Avho nad got sight 
of the poem as it was going through the 
press, remonstrated with him against 
printing it : " One evening he came to 
me with a grave face, and said, ' Words. 
worth, I have seen the volume that you 



134 



WORDSWORTH. 



TO , 

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT 
OP HELVELLYN. 

lN3iL4.TE of a mountain-dwelling, 
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; 
Awed, delighted, and amazed! 

Potent was the spell that bound thee 
Not unwilling to obey ; 
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
Still'd the pantings of dismay. 

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
^^^lat a vast abyss is there ! 
Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows. 
And the glistenings — heavenly fairl 

And a record of commotion 
Which a thousand ridges yield ; 
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
Gleaming like a silver shield! 

Maiden, now take flight;— inherit 
Alps or Andes, — they are thine ! 
With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
Sweep their length of snowy line ; 

Or survey their bright dominions 
In the gorgeous colours drest 
Flung from oft" the purple pinions, 
Evening spreads tliroughout the West! 

Thine are all the coral fountains 
Warbling in each sparry vault 
Of th' untrodden lunar moimtains ; 
Listen to their songs ! — or halt. 

To Niphates' top invited. 
Whither spiteful Satan steer'd ; 



are about to publish. There is one poem 
in it which I earnestly entreat you wiU 
cancel ; for, if published, it will make you 
everlastingly ridiculous.' I answered that 
I felt much obliged by the interest he 
took in my good name as a writer, and 
begged to know what was the unfoi-tunate 
piece he alluded to. He said, ' It is called 
We are Seven.' Nay, said I, that shall take 
its chance however ; and he left me in des- 
pair. I have only to add that in the Spring 
of 1841 I revisited Goodrich Castle, not 
having seen that part of the Wye since I 
met the little girl there in 1793, It w^ould 
have given me greater pleasure to have 
found in the neighbouring hamlet some 
ti'aces of one who had interested me so 
much; but that was impossible, as unfor- 
tunately 1 did not even know her name."] 



Or descend where th' ark alighted. 
When the green earth re-appear'd; 

For the power of hills is on thee, 
As was witness'd through thine eye 
Then, when old Helvellyn won thee 
To confess their majesty 1 « [1816. 



She was &, Phantom of delight 
When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
Tu be a moment's ornament : 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and way lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty ; 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A Creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The veiy pulse of the machine; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will. 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skiU; 

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 

To warn, to comfoi't, and command ; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light.^ [1804. 



8 The lady was Miss Blackett, then re- 
siding with Mr. Montague Burgoyne at 
Fox-Ghyll. We were tem]ited to remain 
too long upon the mountain; and I, im- 
prudently, with the hope of shortening 
the way, led her among the crags and 
doAvn a steep slope, which entangled us 
in dilliculties that were met by her with 
much spirit and courage. — Author's Notes. 

9 This great little poem, for such it 
truly is, refers, thi-oughout, to the author's 
wife. He himself says, " it was written 
from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious." 
— See page 130, note 4. 



MISCELLAiq-EOUS POEMS. 



135 



Nightingale ! thou surely art 

A creature of a " fiery heart " : — [pierce ; 
These notes of thine, they pierce and 
Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
Had help'd thee to a Valentine ; 
A song in mockery and despite 
Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 
And steady bliss, and all the loves 
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 

He did not cease; but coo'd and coo'd; 
And somewhat pensively he Avoo'd: 
He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
Slow to begin, and never ending; 
Of serious faith, and inward glee : 
That was the song— the song for me ! 

[1806. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Natui-e said, " A lovelier flower 
On Earth was never sown : 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Gii'l, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawTi 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing halm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute, insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's fonn 

By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place [round. 

Where rivulets dance their wayward 



And beauty bom of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell : 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake,— The work was done ; 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, tliis calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will he." i [1709. 



I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And t^vinkle on the milky way, 
They stretch'd in never-ending Line 
Along the margin of the bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company : 

I gazed— and gazed— but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 2 



1 Another great little poem. I have 
sometimes thought it the happiest of all 
Wordsworth's smaller pieces; nor do I 
see how" felicity of thought and language 
can go further. Ruskin justly ascribes to 
it the qiiality of " exquisite rightness." 

2 These two lines have been faulted, 
perhaps justly, as being disproportionate 
to the occasion. Coleridge, in the superb 
criticism on Wordsworth in his Biographia 
Literaria, cites them as an instance of 
" thoughts and images too great for the 
subject." '* It is a well-known fact," says 
he, " that bright colours in motion both 
make and leave the strongest impressions 
on the eye. Nothing is more Ukely, too. 



13(3 



WORDSWOllTII. 



And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daflbdils.s [1804. 



THE GREEN LINXET. 

fruit-tree boughs 



that 



Beneath these 

shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequester'd nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat; 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together! 

One have I mark'd the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion! 



Thou, Linnet, in thy green array, 
rresiding Spirit here to-day, 
Dost lead the revels of the May; 
And this is thy dominion. 

While birds and butterflies and flowers 
Make all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perch'd in ecstasies, 

Yet seeming still to hover; 
There! Avhere the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and bodj- flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 



than that a vivid image, or visual spec- 
trum, thus originated, may become the 
link of association in recalling the feel- 
ings and images that had accompanied 
the original impi'ession. But, if we de- 
scribe this in such lines as 

•They flash upon that inward eye 

Whicli is the bliss of solitude,' 
in Avhat words shall we describe the joy 
of retrospection, when the images and 
virtuous actions of a v/hole well-spent life 
pass before that conscience which is in- 
deed the inivayxl ei/c ; which is indeed the 
bliss of solitude?" — The poet, however, 
tells us that " these two lines were written 
by Mrs. ^\^ordsworth." And in one of his 
letters to Archdeacon Wraiigham he has 
the following in refei-ence to the same 
lines: "You know Butler, Montagu's 
friend : when I was in town in Spring, he 
happened to see the volumes lying on 
Montagu's mantel-piece, and to ghmcehis 
eye upon the very poem of the daffodils. 
* Ay,' says he, ' a fine morsel this for the 
Reviewers.' AVlien this was told me, (for 
I was not present,) I observed that there 
Avcrc two lines in that little poem Avhich, 
if Ihorouj^hly felt, Vv'ould annihilate niue- 
tcnths of the reviews of the kingdom, as 
they would find no readers." 

;}' Whcu we were in the woods belOAv 
Gowbarrow Park, Ave saAV a few daffodils 
close to the Avaterside. As Ave Avent alonj 
there AA'cre more and yet more; and at 
last, under the boughs of the trees, Ave 
saw there Avas a long belt of them alon]£^ 
the shoi'c. I never saAV daffodils so beau- 
tiful. They grcAV among the mossy stones - „, i ^^ ^ ., i 
about them : some rested their heads on ^^ Wordsworth here uses the AA-ord 
tlKise stones as on a pillOAV ; tlu; rest tossed 'f^^ncniox Jove. Ihe same usage is fre. 
and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if ^l^cnt m Shakespeare, as m .1 Midsummer. 
they verily laughed Avith the Avind, they ^^'^''^ « Dream, n. 1 : 
looked so gay and glancing. — Author's " And the imperial votai-ess passed ou 
Notes. ' In maiden meditation, /anc^-/ree." 



My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves ; 
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves 

Pours forlh his song in gushes ; 
As if, by that exultmg strain, 
He mock'd and treated Avith disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign. 

While fluttering in the bushes. [1S03. 



THE POET AXD THE CAGED 
TURTLEDOVE. 

As often as I murmur here 

My half-form'd melodies. 
Straight from her osier mansion near 

The Turtledove i-ex)lies : 
Though silent as a leaf befoi-e, 

The captive promptly coos; 
Is it to teach her oavu soft lore. 

Or second my Aveak Muse ? 

I rather think the gentle Dove 

Is murmuring a reproof, 
Displeased that I from lays of love 

Have dared to keep aloof; 
That I, a Bard of hill and dale, 

Have caroll'd, fancy-free,* 



MISCELLAKEOUS POEMS. 



137 



A.S if nor dove nor nightingale 
Had heart or voice for me. 

K such thy meaning, O forbear, 

Sweet Bird, to do me wrong ! 
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 

The spirit of mj' song : 
* Mid grove, and by the cahn fireside, 

liove animates my lyre, — 
That coo again! — 'tis not to chide, 

I feel, but to inspire.^ [18;J0. 



But, hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
As fuU of gladness and as free of heaven, 
I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
And hope for higher raptures, when life's 
day is done. £1805. 



FIDELITY. 



TO A SKY-LARK. 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds 
For thy song. Lark, is strong; 

Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
Singing, singing. 

With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot w^hich seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walk'd thro' wildernesses drearj", 
And to-day my heart is weaiy ; 
Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. [divine 

There is madness about thee, and joy 

In that song of thine; 
Lift me, guide me high and high 
To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning, 
Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled Avith sloth, 
Drunken Lark, thou wouldst be loth 
To be such a traveller as I. 

Happy, happy Liver, 
With a soul as strong as a mountain river, 
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 

Joy and jolUty be with us both! 

Alas! ray jonrney, rugged and uneven, 
Through prickly moors or dusty ways 
must Avind; 



5 Upon this little poem the author 
notes as folloAvs : "This dove was one of 
a pair that had been given to my daugh- 
ter by our excellent triend, Miss .Jews- 
bury. The dove sm-vived its mate many 
years, and Avas killed, to our great sor- 
row, by a neighbour's cat. These verses 
were composed extempore, to the letter. 
It Avas the habit of this Inrd to begin coo- 
ing and murmuring whenever it heard 
me making my verses." 



A BARiaxG sound the Shepherd hears, 
A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts, — and searches with his eyes 
Among the scatter'd rocks : 
And noAV at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern; 
And instantly a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 

That Dog is not of mountain breed; 

Its motions, too, are Avild and shy; 

With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry : 

Nor is there any one in sight 

All round, in hollo av or on height; 

Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear; 

What is the creature doing here? 

It Avas a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn « belOAV ! 

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

PatliAvay or cultivated land ; 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak. 
In symphony austere; 
Tliither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
And mists that spread the Hying shroud; 
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, aa'ouUI hurry past; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
The Shepherd stood ; then makes his Avay 
O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
As qiuckly as he may; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
I A human skeleton on the ground; 
Th' appall'd Discoverer Avith a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the historv. 



6 Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly 
high up in the mountains. 



138 



WORDSWORTH. 



From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The Man had fallen, that place of fearl 

At length upon the Shepherd's miud 

It breaks, and all is clear : 

He instantly recali'd the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came ; 

Remember'd, too, the very day 

On which the Traveller j)ass'd this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh. 

Repeating the same timid cry, 

This Dog, had been thro' three months' 

A dweller in that savage place. [space 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
The Dog had watch'd about the spot, 
Or by his master's side : [time 

How nourish'd here through such long 
He knows, -who gave that love suljlime ; 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate ! ^ [1S05. 



THE 
AFFLICTION OF MARGARET- 



Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
O, find mc, prosperous or imdone! 
Or, if the grave be noAV tliy bed. 
Why am I ignorant of the same, 
That I may i-est ; and neither blame 
Jfor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child; 



To have dcspair'd, have hoped, believed, 
And been for evermore beguiled; 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 

He was among the prime in woi-th, 

An object beauteous to behold; 

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 

If things ensued that wanted grace, 

As hath been said, they were not base ; 

And never blush was on my face. 

Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
^\^lat power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 

Neglect me ! no, I suffer'd long 

From that ill thought; and, being blind. 

Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong : 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 

I've wet ray path with tears like dew, 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
O, do not dread thy mother's door ! 
Think not of me with grief and pain : 
I now can see with better eyes ; 
And worldly grandeur I despise. 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight : 
They mount, — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 



7 In reference to this piece, the author notes as follows : " The young man whose 
death gave occasion to this poem was named Charles Gough, and had come eai'ly in 
the Spring to Patcrdale for the sake of angling. While attempting to cross over Ilel- 
vcllyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of tlie rock where the ice was not 
thawed, and perished. His bodj' was discovered as is told in this poem. Walter 
Sc'f)tt lieard of the accident, and botli he and I, without either of us knowing that the 
other had taken Tip the subject, each A\T^-ote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidel- 
ity." Wordsworth then refers to the following as " a most beautiful stanza," which 
I cannot forbear to quote entire from Scott's poem : 

"How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 

^\^len the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? 
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 

Ere he laded before thee, the friend of thy lieart ? 
And, 1 was it meet that — no requiem reaU o'er him — 

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 

And thou, little guardian, alone sti-etf-h'd l)L'forc him — 

Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart? *' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



139 



Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
Maim'd, mangled bj' inhuman men; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den; 
Or hast been summon'd to the deep, 
Them, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts; but none will force 
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should hare sight 
Of liim I wait for day and night. 
With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass: 
I question things, and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 

Beyond participation lie 

My troubles, and beyond relief: 

If any chance to heave a sigh. 

They pity me, and not my gi-ief. 

Then come to me, my Son, or send 

Some tidings that my woes may end; 

I have no other earthly friend I s [1804. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

I.o ! Avhere the Moon along the sky 
Sails with her hai)py destiny; 
Olt is she hid from mortal eye, 

Or dimly seen ; 
But when the clouds asunder flj^ 

JIow bright her mien ! 



8 This was taken from the case of a 
poor widow who lived in the town of Pen- 
rith. Her sorrow was 'well knov.'u to Mro. 
Wordsworth, to my slstor, and, I lielieve. 
to the whole town. She lce])t a .'-ho]), mid, 
when she saw a stranger passing, slio was 
in the habit of goin-r out into tlie strec^tto 
inquire of him after her son. — Authors 
Notes. 



Far different we,— a ftoward race; 
Thousands, tho' rich in Fortune's grace, 
With cherish'd sullenness of pace 

Their way pursue, 
Ingrates who wear a smileless face 

The whole year through. 

If kindred humours e'er would make 
My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
From Fancy following in thy wake, 

Bright ship of heaven ! 
A counter impulse let me take 

And be forgiven. ^ 



INSCRIPTIONS 

SUPPOSED TO BE FOUXD IX AND NEAR 
A HERMIT'S CELL. 

Hopes, what are they? Beads of morning 
Sti-ung on slender blades of grass; 
Or a spider's web adorning 
In a sti'ait and treacherous pass. 

What are fears but voices airy? 
Whispering harm where harm is not; 
And deluding the unwary 
TiU the fatal bolt is shot I 

What is glory ?— in the socket 
See how dying tapers fare! ^f* 
What is pride? — a whizzing rocket 
That would emulate a star. 

What is friendship? —do not trust her, 
Nor the vows wh.ich she has made ; 
Diamonds dart their brightest lusti-e 
From a palsy-shaken head. 

What is truth? — a staff rejected; 
Duty ? — ah unwelcome clog ; 



9 These verses were thrown off extv'm- 
pore upon leaving Mrs. Luff's house .-t 
Fox-Ghyll, one evening. The good wom- 
an is no"t disposed to look at the briu:!it 
side of things; and there happened tj be 
lu'csent certa.in ladies wlio had reached 
the point of life whcro.i/oitth is ended, and 
who seemed to contend with each other in 
expressing their dislike of the countiy 
and climate. One of them had been heard 
to say she coidd not endure a country 
where there was " neither sunshine noV 
cavaliers." — A aihor's Nods. 

10 Si) in all the editions I have seen. But 
I suspect it should be.r?arr instead of /o/t; 
though the latter may perhaps give the 
same sense. 



140 



WOKDSWOETH. 



Joy? — a moon by fits rellected 
In a swamp or watery bog : 

BiMght, as if through ether steering, 
To the Traveller's eye it shone; 
He hath hail'd it re-appearing, — 
And as quickly it is gone : 

Such is Joy, — as quickly hidden, 
Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
And by sullen weeds forbidden 
To resume its native light. 

What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
(Winds behind, and rocks before!) 
Age? — a drooping, tottering willow 
On a, flat and lazy shore. 

What is peace? — when pain is over, 
And love ceases to rebel, 
Let the last faint sigh discover 
That precedes the passing-knell! 



NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 

Troubled long with warring notions, 
Long impatient of Thy rod, 
I resign my soul's emotions 
Unto Thee, mysterious God! 

What avails the kindly shelter 
Yielded by this craggy rent, 
If my spirit toss and welter 
On the waves of discontent? 

Parching Summer hath no warrant 
To consume tliis crystal Well; 
Rains, that make ea(;h rill a torrent. 
Neither sully it nor swell. 

Thus, dishonouring not her station, 
Would my Life present to Thee, 
Gracious God, the pure oblation 
Of divine tranquillity ! 



Not seldom, clad in radiant vest. 
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; 
Not seldom Evening in the West 
Sinks smilingly forsworn. 

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove^ 
To the confiding Cark, untrue; 
And, if she trust the stars above, 
They can be treacherous too. 



Th' umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread, 
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 
DraAvs lightning down upon the head 
It promised to defend. 

Bu^ Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; 
Thy smile is sure. Thy plighted word 
No change can falsify ! 

I bent before Thy gracious throne, 
And ask'd for peace on suppliant knee; 
And i)eace Avas given, — nor peace alone, 
But faith sublimed to ecstasy! 



In these fair vales hath many a Tree 

At Wordsworth's suit been spared; 
And from the builder's hand this Stone, 
For some rude beauty of its own, 

Was rescued by the Bard : 
So let it rest; and time Avill come 

When here the tender-hearted 
May heave a gentle sigh for him. 

As one of the departed. [1830. 



THE WISHING-GATE. 

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of 
the old high-way leading to Ambleside, 
is a gate, which, time out of mind, has 
been called the Wishing-gate, from a be- 
lief that wishes formed or indulged 
there have a favourable issue. 

Hope niles a land for ever green : 

All powers that serve the bright-eyed 

Are confident and gay; [Queen 

Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
Points she to aught? the bliss draws near, 

And Fancy smooths the way. 

Not such the land of Wishes, — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless 
prayer, 

And thoTights with things at strife : 
Yet how forlorn, should ve depart. 
Ye superstitions of the heart, 

How poor, were human life! 

Wlien magic lore abjured its might, 
Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 

One tender claim abate; 
Witness tliis symbol of your sway. 
Surviving near the public Avay, 

The rustic ^\''ishing-gate I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



141 



luquirc not if the faery race 

Slicd kindly influence on the place, 

Ere northward they retired ; 
If here a Avarrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair, 
Composed "with Nature's finest care, 

And in her fondest love, 
Peace to embosom and content, — 
To overawe the turbulent, 

The selfish to reprove. 

Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
Reclining on this moss-grown bar. 

Unknowing and uulcnown, 
■Th' infection of the ground partakes. 
Longing for his Belov'd, — who makes 

All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are liere. 

The ancient faith disclaim? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 
Desires whose course in folly ends. 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless paiiis outworn, 

Here crave an easier lot; 
If some have thirsted to rencAV 
A broken vow, or bind a true 

With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
Upon th' irrevocable past, 

Some Penitent sincere 
May for a Avorthier future sigh. 
While trickles from his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 

The Worldling, pining to be freed 
Fi'om turmoil, at ho Avould turn or speed 

The current of his fate, 
Might stop before the favour'd scene, 
At Natm-e's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wisliing-gate. 

The Sage, who feels hoAV blind, how weak 
Is man, though loth such help to seek, 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And thirst for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws ; 



Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
To Time's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes reply; 
Time pressing on Avith starry crest, 
To filial sleep upon the breast 

Of dread eternity 1 



THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 

'Tis gone, — Avith old belief and dream 
That round it clung, and tempting scheme 

Released from fear and doubt ; 
And the bright landscape too must lie, 
By this blank Avail, from every eye, 

Relentlessly shut out. 

Bear witness ye who seldom pass'd 
That opening, but a look ye cast 

Upon the lake beioAV, 
What spirit-stirring poAver it gain'd 
From faith Avlii(5h here was entertain'd, 

Though reason might say no. 

Blest is that ground, Avhere, o'er the 
Of histoiy, Glorj-^ claps her AA'ings, [springs 

Fame sheds th' exulting tear; 
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
Unheard of is, like this, a book 

For modest meanings dear. 

It Avas in sooth a happy thought 
That grafted, on so fair a spot, 

So confident a token 
Of coming good; — the charm is fled; 
Indulgent centuries spun a thread. 

Which one harsh day has broken. 

Alas, for him who gave the word! 
Could he no sympathy afford, 

DeriA^ed from Earth or Heaven, 
To hearts so oft by hope betray'd. 
Their veiy wishes Avanted aid, 

Which here was fi-eely given ? 

^Vliere, for the love-lorn maiden's wound. 
Will noAV so readily be found 

A balm of expectation? 
Anxious for far-off children, where 
Shall mothers breathe a like SAA'eet air 

Of home-felt consolation? 

And not unfelt will prove the loss 
'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
And each day's shallow grief; 



142 



WOEDSWORTH. 



Though the most easily beguiled 
Were oft among the lii-st that smiled 
At their own fond belief. 

If still the reckless change we mourn, 
A reconciling thought may turn 

To harm that might lurk here, 
Ere judgment prompted fi'om within 
Fit aims, with courage to begin, 

And strength to persevere. 

Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 

On wishes just and wise, 
That strenuous action follow both, 
And life be one perpetual growth 

Of heaven-ward enterprise. 

So taught, so train'd, we boldly face 
All accidents of time and place ; 

"Whatever props may fail. 
Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
New glory o'er the mountain's head, 

Fresh beauty through the vale. 

That truth informing mind and heai-t. 
The simplest cottager may part, 

Ungrieved, with charm and spell; 
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
The voice of grateful memory 

Shall bid a kind farcM^ell ! i 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A 
VASE. 

The Soaring lark is blest as proud 

When at Heaven's gate she sings ; 
The roving bee proclaims aloud 

Her flight by vocal wings ; 
"While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 

Your silent lives employ 
For something more than dull content. 

Though haply less than joy. 

Yet might your glassy prison seem 

A place Avhere joy is known, 
Where golden flash and silver gleam 

Have meanings of their own ; 



1 Having been told, upon what I thought 
good authority, that this gate had been de- 
sti'oycd, and the opening, where it hung, 
walled up, I gave vent immediately to 
my feelings in these stanzas. But, going 
to the place some time after, I found, with 
much delight, my old favourite unmo- 
lested. 



While, high and low, and all about. 
Your motions, glittering Elves I 

Ye weave, — no danger from without, 
And peace among yourselves. 

Type of a sunny human breast 

Is your transparent cell ; 
Where Fear is but a transient guest, 

No sullen Humours dwell; 
Where, sensitive of every ray 

That smites this tiny sea, 
Your scaly panoplies repay 

The loan w4th usury. 

How beautiful! — Yet none knows why 

This ever-graceful change, 
Eenew'd — renew'd incessantly — 

Within your quiet range. 
Is it that ye with conscious skill 

For mutual pleasure glide; 
And sometimes, not Avithout your will, 

Are dwai-f'd or magnified? 

Fays, Genii of gigantic size 1 

And now, in twilight dim. 
Clustering like constellated eyes, 

In Avings of Cherubim, 
When the fierce orbs abate their glare; — 

Whate'er your forms express, 
Whate'er ye seem, Avhate'er ye ai'e, — 

All leads to gentleness. 

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure ; 

Your birthright is a fence 
From all that haughtier kinds endure 

Through tyranny of sense. 
Ah ! not alone by colours bright 

Are Ye to Heaven allied. 
When, like essential Forms of light, 

Ye mingle, or divide. 

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 

Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 
For moonlight fascinations mild, 

Your gift, ere shutters close, — 
Accept, mute Captives! thanks and 

And may this tribute prove [praise ; 
That gentle admirations raise 

Delight resembling love. [1829. 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
"Why, William, on that old gi-ey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, W^illiam, sit you thus alone. 
And dream your time away ? 



MISCELLAN^EOUS POEMS. 



143 



Where are your books? that light be- 

queath'd 
To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
.Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you; 
As if you were her first-born birtli, 
And none had lived before you I " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply : 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
bur bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with Our will. 

Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sura 
Of things for ever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking? 

Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 

And dream my time away." [1798. 



And hark, how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless, — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vei-nal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect [things : 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. [1708. 



THE TABLES TURNED. 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUB- 
JECT. 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you'll grow double : 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble? 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPP^NG. 
I HEAKD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, [thoiigiits 
In that sweet mood when pleasant 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The hiTman soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved m}' heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Thro' primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 
Their thoughts I cannot measure ; — 
But the least motion which they made. 
It seem'd a thriU of pleasure. 



The Sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow [spread 

Through all the long green fields has | And I must think, do all I can, 

His flxst sweet evening yellow. That there was pleasm-e thei*e. 



The budding twigs spread out their fan. 
To catch the breezy air; 



Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet his music! on my life. 
There's more of wisdom in it. 



If this belief from Heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature's holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man? [1798. 



144 



WOKBSWORTH. 



TO MY SISTER. 

It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than before 
The redbreast sings from the tali larch 
That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air, 
Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare ti-ees, and mountains bai-e, 
And grass in the green field. 

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine,) 
Now that our morning meal is done, 
Make haste, your morning task resign; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you ; — and, pray 
Put on with speed your woodland dress : 
And bring no book : for this one day 
"We'll give to idleness. 

No joyless forms shall regulate 
Our living calendar : 
We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
The opening of the year. 

Love, now a universal birth, 
From heart to heart is steiiling, 
From earth to man, from man to earth : 
It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us more 
Than years of toiling reason: 
Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
Wliich they shall long obey : 
We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above, 
We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be tuned to love. 

Then come, my Sister! come, I pi'ay. 
With speed put on your Avoodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We'll give to idleness.^ [1798. 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 

^VITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE 
WAS CONCERNED. 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry ; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

Th' halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days, he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage ; 

To blither tasks did Simon roiise 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the countiy could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reel'd, and -was stone-blind. 

And still there's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices ! 

But, O the heavy change ! —bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred. 

Old Simon to the world is left [see, 

In liveried poverty. 

His Master's dead, — and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick; 
His body, dwindled and a^vry. 
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
His legs are thin and dry. 
One prop he has, and only one; 
His wife, an aged Avoman, 
Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
Upon the village Common. 



2 Composed in front of Alfoxden 
House. 3Iy little boy-messenger on this 
occasion was the son of Basil Montajui. 
The larch mentioned in the first stanza 
was standing when I revisited the place 
in May, 1841, more tlian forty j^ears after. 
A lew score yards from this tree, grew one 



of the most remarkable beech-trees ever 
seen. It was of immense size, and threw 
out arms that struck into the soil, like 
those of the banyan-tree, and rose again 
from it. Two of 'the branches thus insert- 
ed themselves twice; which gave to each 
the appeai'ance of a serpent moving along 
by gathering itself up in folds. —AiiUwr'a 
Not>:s. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



145 



Beside their moss-groAvn hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of laud he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer? 

Oft, working by her Husband's side, 

Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 

For she, with scanty cause for pride, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with your utmost skill 

From labour could not wean them, 

'Tis little, very little, all 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store, 
As he to you will tell; 
For still, the more he works, the more 
Do his weak ankles SAvell. — 
My gentle Reader, I perceive 
How patiently you've waited, 
And now I fear that you expect 
Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 
Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 
A tale in every thing. 

What more I have to say is short. 
And you must kindly take it : 
It is no tale; but, should you think. 
Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 

One summer-day I chanced to see 
This old Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock totter'd in his hand; 
So vain was his endeavour. 
That at the root of the old tree 
He might have work'd for ever. 

"You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool," to him I said; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my proffer'd aid. 

1 struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I sever' d. 

At which the poor old Man so long 
And vainly had endeavour'd. 

The tears into his eyes were brought. 
And thanlis and praises seem'd to run 



So fast out of his heart, I thought 

They never would have done. — 

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 

With coldness still returning; 

Alas! the gratitude of men 

Hath oftener left me mourning.3 [1708. 



THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 

Flatter'd with promise of escape 

From every hxu'tful blast. 
Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape, 

Her loveliest and her last. 

Less fair is Summer riding high 

In fierce solstitial power. 
Less fau' than when a lenient sky 

Brings on her parting hour. 

When earth repays with golden sheaves 

The labours of the plough. 
And ripening fruits and forest leaves 

All brighten on the bough; 

What pensive beauty Autumn shows, 

Before she hears the sound 
Of Winter rushing in, to close 

The emblematic round! 

Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 

So may our Autumn blend 
With hoary Winter, and Life touch. 

Through Heaven-born hope, her end! 
[1829. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

Art thou a Statist in the van 
Of public conflicts train'd and bred ? 
First learn to love one living man ; 
Then mayst thou think upon the dead. 



3 Blourning, probably because the grati- 
tude was so litUe dr.<i('rvcd,ov so dispropor- 
tionate to the occat^ion.— I here quote 
again from the poet's notes: "This old 
man had been huntsman to the squires of 
Alfoxdeii, which, at the time Ave occupied 
it, belonged to a minor. It is unneces- 
saiy to add, the fact was as mentioned in 
the poem ; and I have, alter an interval of 
forty-five years, the image of the old man 
as fresh as if I had seen him yesterday. 
The expression wlien the hounds are out, 
' I dearly love their voice,' was word for 
word from his own lips." 



146 



WOKDSWORTH. 



A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh I 
Go, cany to some fitter place 
The keenness of that practised eye, 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
A rosy Man, right plump to see? 
Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, — 
This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff? 
Welcome! — but lay thy sword aside, 
And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou? one, all eyes. 
Philosopher, a fingering slave. 
One that would peep and botanize 
Upon his mother's gi-ave? 

"Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O, turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
That he below may rest in peace. 
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears v 
Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
Himself his world, and his own God; 

One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can 
No form, nor feeling, gi-eat or small ; [cling 
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
Sleej) in thy intellectual crust; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
Near this unprofitable dust. 

But who is He, with modest looks. 
And clad in homely russet brown? 
He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own. 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove; 
And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of sky and earth, 
Of hill and valley, he has view'd ; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 

In common things that roTind us lie 
Some random truths he can impart, — 



The harvest of a quiet eye 

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 

But he is weak; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

Come hither in thy hour of strength; 
Come, weak as is a breaking wavel 
Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
Or build thy house upon this grave. [1799. 



MATTHEW. 



In the School of Hawkshead is a tablet, on 
which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the 
Names of the several persons Avho have 
been School-masters there since the 
foundation of the School, with the time 
at which they entered upon and quitted 
their office. Opposite to one of those 
Names the Author wrote the following 
lines : 

If Nature, for a favourite child, 
In thee hath temper'd so her clay, 
That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
Yet never once doth go astray, 

Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 

When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable, thine eye 
Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, 
Pause with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd : 
For Matthew a request I make 
Which for himself he had not made. 

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
Is silent as a standing pool; 
Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
And murmur of the viUage school. 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were 

sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round. 
It seem'd as if he drank it up, — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



147 



Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
Thou happy Soul! and can it be 
That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee?* [1799. 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 

We waUi'd along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning Sun : 
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, 
" The will of God be done! " 

A village school-master was he, 
With hair of glittering grey; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass, 
And by the steaming rills, 
We traveird merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

" Our work," said I, '* was well begun; 
Then, from thy breast what thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a Sun, 
So sad a sigh has brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop ; 
And, fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
To me he made reply : 

"Ton cloud Avith that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

And just above yon slope of corn 
Such coloiu's, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April mom. 
Of this the very brother. 

With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave. 



4 This and other poems connected with 
Matthew would not gain bva literal detail 
of facts. Like the Wanderer in The Ex- 
cursion, this School-master was made up 
of several both of his class and men of 
other occupations. I do not ask pardon 
for -what there is of untruth in such verses, 
considered stritcly as matters of fact. It 
is enough if, being ti-ue aud consistent in 
spirit, they move and teach in a manner 
not unworthy of a poet's calling.— ylu- 
thor's Notes. 



And, to the church-yard come. 
Beside my daughter's grave. 



stopp'd 
[short 



Nine Summers had she scarcely seen. 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang;— she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more, 
For so it seem'd, than tiU that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

And, turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the churchyard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was Avct 
With points of morning dew. 

A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure deUghtl 

No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripp'd with foot so free ; 
She seem'd as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea. 

There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine ; 
I look'd at her, and look'd again; 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 

Methinks, I see him stand. 

As at that moment, with a bough 

Of wilding in his hand. [1799. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

A COJrVTERSATION. 

We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and ti-ue, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
Beside a mossy seat; 
x\nd from the tui-f a fountain broke, 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew! " said I, "let us match 
This water's joleasant tune 
With some old border-song, or catch 
That suits a Summer's noon; 



148 



WORDSWOETH. 



Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing hero beneath the shade 
That half-mad thiug of witty rhymes 
Which you last Api-il made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree; 
And thus the dear old Man replied, 
The grey-hair'd man of glee : 

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
My heart is idly stirr'd. 
For the same sound is in my ears 
Wliich in those days I heard. 

Thus fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for w^hat age takes away 
Than what it leaves behind. 

The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the hill, 

Let loose their carols when they please, 

Are quiet when they will. 

"With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 

But we are press'd by heavy laws; 
And often, glad no more, 
"Ws wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth. 
The household hearts that were his own; 
It is the man of mirth. 

My days, my Friend, are almost gone. 
My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

*«Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
The man who thus complains ! 



I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains ; 

And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee I " 
At this he grasp 'd my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
And through the wood wc went; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewilder'd chimes. [17£ 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 

{In a small valley opposite St. Goar, upon 
the Rhine.) 

Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 

Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faitliful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, [Rhine 

Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring 

And all Ms majesty, 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. 

The Mother, — her thou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between, 

Or found on Earth a name; 
An image, too, of that sweet Boy 

Thy inspirations give, — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy. 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes, 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguiled; 

Uncounted months are gone. 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow. 
The smooth transparent skin. 

Refined, as Avith intent to show 
The holiness within; 

The grace of parting Infancy 
By blushes yet untamed; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



149 



Age faithflil to the mother's knee, 
Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side ; 
Their soul-siibduiiig looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride : 
Such beauty hath th' Eternal pour'd 

Upon them not forlorn, 
Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, 

Kor yet redeem'd from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and wrong. 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

From Hebrew fountains sprung; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 
- Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jerusalem! 5 [1828. 



ESfTRODUCTIOX TO PETER BELL. 

There's something in a flying horse, 
There's something in a huge baUoon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
For shape just like the crescent-moon. 

And now I have a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon : 

Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; 

But, if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up, and you shall see me soon! 

The woods, my Friends, are round you 
Rocking and roaring like a sea ; [roaring, 
The noise of danger's in your eai-s, 
And ye have aU a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me ! 



5 Coleridge, my daughter, and I, in 
1828, passed a fortnight upon the banks of 
the Rliine. It was at St. Goar that I saw 
the Jewish family here described. Though 
exceedingly poor, and in rags, they were 
not less beautiful than I have endeavoured 
to make them appear. We had taken a 
little dinner with us in a basket, and iu- 
vited them to partake of it; which the 
mother refused to do, both for herself and 
children, saying it was with them a fast- 
day; adding, dillidevitly, that, whether 
such obsenances were right or wrong, 
she felt it her duty to keep them strictly. 
The Jews, who are numerous on this part 
of the Rhine, greatly surpass the German 
peasantry in the beauty of their featiu-es 
and in the intelligence of their counte- 
nances. — Author's Azotes. 



Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
The pointed horns of my canoe; 
And, did not pity touch my breast, 
To see how ye are all distrest, 
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you 1 

Away we go, my Boat and I, — 
Frail man ne'er sate in such another; 
Whether among the winds we strive, 
Or deep into the clouds we dive. 
Each is contented with the other. 

Away we go ; and what care we 
For treasons, tumults, and for wars? 
We are as calm in our delight 
As is the crescent-moon so bright 
Among the scatter'd stars. 

Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 
Through many a long blue field of ether. 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her : 
Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull, — 
We pry among them all; have shot 
High o'er the red-hair' d race of Mars, 
Cover'd from top to toe with scars : 
Such company I like it not ! 

The towns of Saturn are decay'd. 
And melancholy Spectres tlu*ong them: 
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
Each other in the vast abyss, 
With joy I sail among them. 

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth. 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain. 
That little Earth of om-s ? 

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth : 
Whole ages if I here should roam, 
The world for my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be ; 
I've left my heart at home. 

See! there she is, the matchless Earth! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean I 
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
Through the grey clouds; the Alps are 
Like waters in commotion ! [here, 

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands; 
That silver tlu-ead the river Dnieper; 



150 



WORDSWORTH. 



And look, where clothed in brightest 
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; [green 
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! 

And see the town where I was born! 
Around those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols; — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never; — 
How tunefully the forests ring! 
To hear the Earth's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang for ever I 

*' Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 

"Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Within a living Boat to sit, 

And make no better use of it; 

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon? 

Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
riutter'd so faint a heart before; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpower'd your mortal ears ? — 
Such din shall trouble them no more. 

These nether precincts do not lack 
Chai-ms of their own : then come with me ; 
I want a comrade, and for you 
There's nothing that I would not do ; 
Nought is there that you shaU not see. 

Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
We'll sport amid the boreal morning; 
Will mingle Avith her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hidmg, 
And now the stars adorning. 

I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray : 
Fair is that land as evening skies, 
And cool, though in the depth it lies 
Of burning Africa. 

Or we'll into the realm of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things ; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings! 

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore. 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
Bow Earth and Heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore ! " 



" My little vagrant Form of light, 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you play'd your friendly part; 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces, — then adieu ! 

Temptation lurks among your words ; 
But, while these pleasures you're pursu- 
Without impediment or let, [ing 

No wonder if you quite forget 
AVhat on the Earth is doing. 

There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen w ith a faith sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

Go, (but the world's a sleepy world, 
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late,) 
Take with you some ambitious Youth; 
For, restless Wanderer, I, in truth, 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 

Long have I loved what I behold, 
The night that calms, the day that cheers; 
The common growth of mother Earth 
Sufllces me, — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 

The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
I shall not covet for my dower, 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may stray, 
And with a soul of power. 

These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to soothe, or elevate? 
Wliat nobler marvels than tlie mind 
May in life's daily prospect find. 
May find or there create? 

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
What spell so strong as guilty Fear? 
Repentance is a tender Sprite; 
If aught on Earth have heavenly might, 
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.s 

But grant my wishes, —let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height; 
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 



6 This and the three preceding stanzas 
convey, as well perhaps as any thing of 
equal length can do it, the author's poeti- 
cal creed. They form a little poem by 
themselves, — perfect in its way. 



MISCELLA]S"EOUS POEMS. 



151 



More daring far than Hippogriff, 
And be thy own delight ! 

To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
Beside him in the cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 

With these are many more convened; 
They knoAV not I have been so far ; — 
I see them there, in number nine, 
Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine I 
I see them, —there they are ! 

There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; 
And, ere the light of evening fail, 
To them I must relate the Tale 
Of Peter Bell the Potter." 

Oflf flew the Boat,— away she flees. 
Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
And I, as well as I was able, 
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
Ljmp'd on with sore vexation. 

" O, here he is ! " cried little Bess, — 
She saw me at the garden-door : 
" We've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng, 
Full nine of them or more. 

" Eeproach me not,— your fears be still,— 
Be thankful we again have met : 
Resume, my Friends, within the shade 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well-remember'd debt." 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wholly rescued from the pale 
Of a Avild dream, or worse illusion; 
But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
Began the promised Tale. 



All, by the moonlight river-side 
Groan'd the poor Beast, — alas ! in vain; 
The staff was raised to loftier height, 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck, and struck again. 

"Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the 

rules 
Of common sense you're surely sinning; 
This leap is for us all too bold : 



Who Peter was, let that be told, 
And start from the beginning.** 

A Potter ,7 Sir, he was by trade. 
Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
And wheresoever he appeared 
Full twenty times was Peter fear'd 
For once that Peter was respected. 

He, two-and-thirty years or more, 
Had been a wild and woodland rover; 
Had heard th' Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum;» 
And he had been where Lincoln bell 
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell, — 
A far-reno^vn'd alarum ! 

At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
And merry Carlisle had he been; 
^Vnd all along the Lowlands fair. 
All through the bonny shire of Ayr* 
And far as Aberdeen. 

And he had been at Inverness ; 
And Peter, by the mountain-rills, 
Had danced his round with Highland 
And he had lain beside his asses [lasses; 
On lofty Cheviot Hills: 

And he had trudged through Yorkshire 

dales. 
Among the rocks and winding scars ; » 
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars : 

And all along th' indented coast, 
Bespatter'd with the salt-sea foam; 
Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay; — 
Sure never man like him did roam! 



7 In the dialect of the North of Eng- 
land, a peddler of earthenware is called 
a potter. 

8 Sarum is an old contraction of Salis- 
hwnj. The spire of Salisbury Cathedral 
is considered the finest in England. I 
tliiuk it is also the highest. Caernarvon is 
the ancient capital of Wales; famous as 
the seat of King Arthur and his Court. 

9 Scar, sometimes spelt scaur, is a bare 
and broken place on a side of a mountain, 
or in the high bank of a river. 



152 



WORDSWORTH : 



As well might Peter, in the Fleet.i 
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor : 
He travell'd here, he travell'd there; 
But not the value of a hair 
Was heart or head the better. 

He roved among the vales and streams, 
In the green wood and hollow dell, — 
They were his dwellings night and day; 
But Nature ne'er could find the way 
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 

In vain, through every changeful year, 
Did Nature lead him as before : 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him. 
And it was nothing more. 

Small change it made in Peter's heart 
To sec his gentle pannier'd train 
With more than vernal pleasure feeding. 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Its earliest green along the lane. 

In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was spread, 
When Peter on some April morn, 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn. 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 

At noon, when by the forest's edge 
He lay beneath the branches high. 
The soft blue sky tlid never melt 
Into his heart ; he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 

On a fair prospect some have look*d 
And felt, as i have heard them say, 
As if the moving time had been 
A thing as steadfast as the scene 
On which they gazed themselves away. 

Within the breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place : 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-crj- pursued, 
As ever ran a felon's race. 

Of all that lead a lawless life, 

Of all that love their lawless lives, 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. 



1 The Fleet is the name of one of the 
old London prisons. It seems to have 
been specially used for confining insol 
vent debtors. 



Nay, start not ! — wedded wives, and 
twelve ! [him, 

But how one wife could e'er come near 
In simple truth I cannot tell; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his heart 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Peter Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; 
In his whole figure and his mien 
A savage character was seen 
Of mountaias and of dreary moors. 

To all th' unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'3Iid summer storms or Winter's ice, 

Had Peter join'd whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
Of courage you saw little there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 

He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
And long and slouching was his gait; 
Beneath his looks so bare a'nd bold, 
You might perceive, his spirit cold 
\V'as playing with some inward bait. 

His forehead wrinkled and was furr'd; 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinlcing of his whem and hows ; 
And half, by Imitting of his brows 
Benjath the glaring Sun. 

Taerc was a hardness in his cheek, 
There was a hardness in his eye, 
As if the man had fix'd his face. 
In many a solitary place. 
Against the wind and open sky 1 ^ 



2 The poem of Peter Bell, though good 
enough iu itself, is not so well suited as 
many others are to the purpose of this 
volume; while, from its length, it would 
v-ccupy more room than can well be spared 
Un- a piece of that kind. No apology, I 
think, will be required for including the 
Prologue and the description of the hero. 
The poem was published in 1819, but was 
1 written as early as 1798. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



153 



PRESENTIMENTS. 

PRESENxrMENTS 1 thej' judge not right 
Who deem that ve from open light 

Retire in fear of shame ; 
All Heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess. 
The deep sigh that seem'd fatherless. 

Were mine in early days ; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart, 

And venture on your praise. 

What though some busy foes to good. 
Too iDotent over nerve and blood, 

Lurk near you, — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
This hides not from the moral Muse 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 

Builds castles, not of air : 
Bodings unsanction'd by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill. 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, yoiu' stubborn gift. 
That no philosophy can lift, 

Shall vanish, if ye please, 
Like morning mist; and, where it lay, 
The spirits at your bidding play 

In gaiety and ease. 

Star-guided contemplations move 
Througli space, tliough calm, not raised 

Prognostics that ye rtde ; [above 

The naked Indian of the wild, 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fothom your intents. 
Number their signs or instruments? 

A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 

Ye feelingly reprove ; 
And daily, in the conscious breast. 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 



When some great change gives boundless 
To an exulting Nation's hope, [scope 

Oft, startled and made Avise 
By your lov/-breathed interpretings, 
The simply-meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries.3 

Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hath been unfurPd; 
For dancers in the festive haU 
^Vhat ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetch'd from the shadowy woi-ld ! 

'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, 
Embolden'd by a keener sense; 

That men have lived for whom. 
With flread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 

Truth shows a glorious face, 
While on the isthmus which commands 
The councils of both worlds, she stands, 

Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
All changes of the element. 

Whose wisdom fix'd the scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

^Ylien lights of reason fail. [1830. 



If this great world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track ; 
If freedom, set, will rise again, 

And virtue, flown, come back; 
Woe to the purblind crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, from past or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear ! [1833. 



3 In this stanza, the poet is said to have 
had in mind the then recent convulsion in 
France which pushed Charles the Tenth 
from the throne. While the more san- 
guine commonly wax enthusiastic over 
such noisy and emphatic changes, sup- 
posing the'ra about to usher in new eras 
of freedom and happiness, more thought- 
ful minds are apt to prognosticate just the 
opposite, as knowing that real improve- 
ment among men generally proceeds by 
the methods of growth, which are slow 
and Bilent. 



154 



WOKDSWOETH. 



SEPTEMBER, 1819. 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
Bright ti'ophies of the Sun ! 
Like a fair sister of the sky, 
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 
The mountains looking on. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
Albeit uninspired by love. 
By love untaught to ring, 
May well afford to mortal ear 
An impulse more profoundly dear 
Than music of the Spring. 

For that from turbulence and heat 
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
In nature's struggling frame, 
Some region of impatient life ; 
And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
Therein a portion claim. 

This, this is holy;— while I hear 
These vespers of another year. 
This hymn of thanks and praise, 
My spirit seems to mount above 
Th' anxieties of human love. 
And Earth's precarious days. 

But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, 
Uncheck'd is that soft harmony : 
There lives who can provide 
For all His creatures ; and in Him, 
Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
These choristers confide. 



UPON THE SA3IE OCCASION. 

Departing Summer hath assumed 
An asj)ect tenderly illumed, 
The gentlest look of Spring; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 

No ftiint and hesitating trill. 
Such tribute as to AVinter chill 
The lonely redbreast pays ! 
Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 
From social warblers gathering in 
Their harvest of sweet lays. 

Nor doth th' example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 



And yellow on the bough : — 
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head 1 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
Around a younger brow I 

Yet will I temperately rejoice : 

Wide is tlie range, and free the choice 

Of undiscordant themes ; 

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 

Not less than vernal ecstasies. 

And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 
And they like Demi-gods are strong 
On whom the Muses smile; 
But some their function have disclaim'd, 
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
To enervate and defile. 

Not such th' initiatory strains 

Committed to the silent plains 

In Britain's earliest dawn : 

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 

While all-too-daringly the veil 

Of Nature was withdi'awn! 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
When the live chords Alcaeus smote, 
Inflamed by sense of wrong : 
Woe 1 woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
Of fierce, vindictive song. 

And not unhalloAV'd was the page 
By Avinged Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit; 
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion sway'd 
Her own ^olian lute.* 

O ye who patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore. 
What rapture ! could ye seize 
Some Theban fragment, or uni-oll 
One precioiis, tendei'-hearted scroll 
Of pure Simonides. 



4 The " Lesbian Maid " is Sappho, cele- 
brated in classic lore for lier impassioned 
love-lyrics. The ancient writers agree in 
expressing the most unbounded admira- 
tion of her poetxy. She was contempo- 
rary witii Solon, who is said to have been 
so affected at the recitation of one of her 
poems, that he expressed an earnest de- 
sire to learn it before he died. Only a few 
fragments of her poetry have survived. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



155 



That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesy; a bursting forth 
Of genius from the dust : 
What Horace gloried to behold, 
What Maro loved, shall we enfold? 
Can haughty Time be just! 



[1819. 



MEMORY. 



A PEN — to register ; a key — 
That winds through secret wards ; 
Are well assign'd to Memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand; 

That, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand; 

That smoothes foregone distress, the lines 
Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanish'd happiness refines, 
And clothes in brighter hues ; 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

O, that our lives, which flee so fest, 
In purity were such, 
That not an image of the past 
Should fear that pencil's touch! 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene. 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep, 
To their own far-off murmurings listen- 
ing. [1823. 



This lawn, a carpet all alive 

With shadows flung from leaves, to strive 

In dance amid a press 
Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 

Of strenuous idleness : 



Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
Encounter, and to narrow seas 

Foi-bid a moment's rest; 
The medley less when boreal Lights 
Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 

To feats of anns addrest! 

Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
This ceaseless play, the genuine life 

That serves the steadfast hours 
Is in the grass beneath that grows 
Unheeded, and the mute repose 

Of sweetly-breathing flowers.^ 



Lives there a man whose sole delights 
Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
What every natural heart enjoys? 
Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
From murmur of a running stream? 
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
To him, their verdure from the fields? 
And take the radiance from the clouds 
In which the Sun his setting shrouds? 

A soul so pitiably forlorn, 
If such do on this Earth abide. 
May season apathy with scorn. 
May turn indifference to pride ; 
And still be not unblest, — compared 
With him who grovels, self-debarr'd 
From all that lies within the scope 
Of holy faith and Christian hope; 



5 Hundreds of times have I watched 
the dancing of shadows amid a press ot 
sunshine, and other beautifulappearances 
of light and shade, flowers and shrubs. 
Some are of oj)iniou that tlie habit of 
analysing, decomposing, and anatomising 
is unfavourable to the perception of beau- 
ty. People are led into this mistake by 
overlooking the fact that, such processes 
being to a certain extent within the reach 
of a limited intellect, we are apt to as- 
cribe to them that insensibility of which 
they are in truth the eflect, and not the 
cause. Admiration and love, to which 
all knowledge truly vital must tend, are 
felt by men of real genms in proportion 
as their discoveries in natural Philosophy 
are enlarged; and the beauty in form of 
a plant or an animal is not made less but 
more apparent as a whole, by more accu- 
rate insight into its constituent properties 
and powers. A savant, who is not also a 
poet in soul and a religionist in heart, is 
a feeble and unhappy creatiu'e. —Author's 
Notes. 



156 



WORDSWORTH. 



Or, shipwreck'd, kindles on the coast 
False lii-es, that others may be lost.o 



TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 

The Minstrels plaj'd their Christmas tune 
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves : 
While, smitten by a lofty Moon, 
Th' encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
That overpower'd their natural green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 
Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 
Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
So stout and hardy were the band [hand! 
That scraped the chords with strenuous 

And who but listen'd? — till was paid 
Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
The greeting given, the music play'd. 
In honour of each household name, 
Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
And " merry Christmas " wish'd to all! 

O Brother ! I revere the choice 
That took thee from thy native hills; 
And it is given thee to rejoice : 
Though public care full often tills 
(Heaven only witness of the toil) 
A barren and ungrateful soil. 

Yet, would that Thou, with me and nune, 

Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 

And seen on other faces shine 

A true revival of the light 

Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 

In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
On these exjiected annual rounds ; 
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
Or they are offer'd at the door 
That guards the lowliest of the poor. 

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark. 
To hear, — and sink again to sleep ! 



6 These two stanzas are from a poem 
of considerable length addressed " To the 
Lady Fleming." The piece, as a whole, 
IS rather of a sermonising character; but 
1 could not well resist the temptation to 
insert so much of it. 



Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
By blazing fu*e, the still suspense 
Of self-complacent innocence; 

The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 
Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; 
And some unbidden tears that rise 
For names once heard, and heard no more ; 
Tears brighten'd by the serenade 
For infant in the cradle laid. 

Ah ! not for emerald fields alone. 
With ambient streams more pure and 
Than fabled Cytherea's zone [bi-ight 

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight. 
Is to my heart of hearts endear'd [rear'd ! 
The ground where we were born and 

Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
Remnants of love whose modest sense 
Thus into narrow room withdraws; 
HaU, Usages of pristine mould, 
And ye that guard them, Mountains old t 

Bear with me, Brother! quench the 

thought 
That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
From the proud margin of the Thames, 
^Vnd Lambeth's venerable towers. 
To humbler streams and greener bowers. 

Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 

Short leisure even in busiest days ; 

Moments, to cast a look behind. 

And profit by those kindly rays 

That thro' the clouds do sometimes steal, 

And all the far-ofi' past reveal. 

Hence, while th' imperial City's din 
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
A pleased attention I may win 
To agitations less severe, 
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
But fill the hollow vale with joy ! ^ 



7 In 1820, the poet published a volume 
entitled Sonnets to the River Diiddon, &c.; 
ami this poem was prelixcd to the volume 
in the form of a dedication. The Ilev. 
Christopher Wordswortli, D.D., was a 
younger brother of the poet, and was at 
that time Rector of Lambeth, which is a 
part of London : he afterwards became 
Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



157 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 

1803. 
SEVEX YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 

I SHIVER, Spirit lierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold : 

As vapours breathed from duugeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

\Miere Burns is laid. 

And have I then thj^ bones so near, 
And thou forbidden to appear? 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both mj- wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off, Aveight, — nor press on weight! — 
away, [stay : 

Dark thoughts ! — They came, but not to 
With chasten'd feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, 
Rose like a star that touching Earth, 

For so it seems. 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be they now? 
Full soon th' Aspirant of the plough, 

The prompt, the brave. 
Slept, with th' obscux*est, in the low 

And silent grave. 

I moum'd with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hail'd when first it shone, 

And show'd my youth 
How Verse may build a iDrincely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alas! where'er the current tends, 
Regret pursues and with it blends ; — 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends s 



8 Criffcl is a mountain rising near the 
river Nith, in the shire of Kirkcudbright, 
Scotland, and is visible from Skiddaw in 
Cumberland, across the Solway Frith. 
The home of Burns was on the banks of 
the Nith; and as these two mountains, 



By Skiddaw seen ; — 
Neighbours we were, and loving frienda 
We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined; 
But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
Where the main libres are entwined, 

Through Nature's skill 
May even by contraries be join'd 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow : 
Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 
At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sate and talk'd where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather.^ 

What treasures would have then been 

placed 
Within my reach ! of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich reijast ! 

But why go on ? — 
O, spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

His grave gi-ass-grown ! 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gather'd to his Father's side, 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight. 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath eai-ly found among the dead, 

Harbour'd Mhere none can be misled, 

Wrong'd, or distrest; 
And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And, O, for Thee, by pitying grace 
Check'd otl-times in a devious race, 
jNIay He Avho halloweth the place 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in th' embrace 

For which it pray'd ! 



standing in sight of each other, are the 
most conspicuous objects in their several 
places, thej' are well taken to represent 
the geographical nearness of the two 
poets. 

9 Goivan is a Scotch word for dalsi/. 
The poet had in mind Burns' beautiful 
stanzas To a Mountain Daisy. 



158 



WORDSWORTH *. 



Sighing I turn'd away ; but ere 
Night fell I heard, or seem'd to hear, 
Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chanted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim.i 



THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON 

THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE 

POET'S RESIDENCE. 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 

That must have follow'd when his brow 

Was wreathed {The Vision tells us how) 

With holly spray, 
He falter'd, drifted to and fro, 

And pass'd away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 

throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief, — 
Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. 
And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid Stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; 
Think rather of those moments bright 
When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true. 
When Wisdom prosper'd in his sight 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand. 
Freely as in youth's season bland, 
When side by side, his Book in hand, 



1 This piece, as also several of those 
that follow, grew out of the tour that the 
poet and his sister made through Scotland 
in 1S03. In a note on the piece, the author 
has the following: " We talked of Barns, 
and of the prospect he must have had, 
perliaps from his own door, of Skiddaw 
and Ids companions; indulging ourselves 
in the fancy that Ave might have been per- 
sonally known to each other, and he have 
looked upon those objects with more 
pleasure for our sakes." 



We wont to stray, 
Our pleasure varying at command 
Of each sweet Lay. 

How oft inspired must he have trod 
These pathways, yon far-stretching road I 
There lurks his home; in that Abode, 

With mirth elate, 
Or in his nobly-pensive mood 

The Rustic sate. 

Proud thoughts that Image overawes; 
Before it humbly let us pause. 
And ask of Nature, from what cause 

And by what rules 
She train'd her Burns to win applause 

That shames the Schools. 

Through busiest street and loneliest glen 

Are felt the flashes of his pen; 

He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 

Bees All their hives ; 
Deep in the general heart of men 

His power survives. 

Wliat need of fields in some far clime 
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
And all that fetch'd the flowing rhyme 

From genuine springs, 
Shall dwell together till old Time 

Folds up his wings ? 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavour. 
And memoiy of Earth's bitter leaven, 

Eff'aced for ever. 

Bnt why to Him confine the prayer. 
When kindred thoughts and yearnings 
On the frail heart the purest share [bear 

With all that live? — 
The best of what we do and are, 

Just God, forgive ! 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

AFTER VTESITING THE GRAVE OF THEIK 
FATHER. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

I sought th' untimely gi'ave of Burns : 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still moui'ns 

With sorrow true; 
And moi-e would grieve, but that it tiUTis 

Trembling to you. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



159 



Tlu-ough twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill ; 

And more than common strength and 

Must ye display, [skill 

If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemperance with less harm, beware I 
But, if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The Social hour, of tenfold care 

There will be need; 

For honest men delight will take 
To spare your failings for his sake. 
Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
' Your steps pursue; 
And of your Father's name will make 
A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haiints retire, 
And add your voices to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

AVith service meet; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet; 

Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows," 
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
Or wiped his honourable brows 

Bedew'd with toil, 
While rcai^ers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturn'd the soil ; 

His judgment witli benignant ray 
Sliall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given ; 
Nor deem that " light which leads astray 

Is light from Heaven." 2 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
Be independent, generous, brave : 
Your Father such example gave, 

And such revere; 
But be admonisli'd by his gi'ave, 

And think, and fear! 



COMPOSED AT CORA LINN.s 

IN SIGHT OP WALLACE'S TOWER. 

Lord of the vale! astounding Flood, 
The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
Quakes, conscious of thy power; 
The caves reply witli hollow moan; 
And vibrates, to its central stone, 
Yon time-cemented Tower I 

And yet how fair the rural scene I 
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
Beneficent as strong; 
Pleased in retreshing dews to steep 
The little trembling flowers that peep 
Thy shelving rocks among. 

Hence all who love their country, love 
To look on thee, — delight to rove 
Where they thy voice can hear; 
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid 
In dust, that voice is dear ! 

Along thy banks, at dead of night, 
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; 
Or stands, in warlike vest, 
AlofD, beneath the Moon's pale beam, 
A Chami3ion worthy of the stream, 
Yon gTcy tower's living crest ! 

But clouds and envious darkness hide 
A Form not doubtfully descried : 
Their transient mission o'er, 
O, say to what blind region flee 
These Shapes of awful phantasy r 
To what untrodden shore? 

Less than divine command they spurn; 
But this we from the mountains learn, 
And this the valleys show, — 
That never will they deign to hold 
Communion where the heart is cold 
To luiman weal and woe. 

The man of abject soul in vain 
Shall walk the Marathonian plain; 
Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 



2 This quotation is from Burns' poem 
The Vision: 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious' way. 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light ii'om Heaven." 



3 Linn is Scottish for wnterfaU or cas- 
cade.— The author's notes here furnish 
the follo\vi)ig : " I had seen this celebrated 
AV^atevfall t\Vice before: but the feelings 
to which it liad given birth were not ex- 
pressed till they recurred in presence of 
the object on this occasion." — The poet 
made a second tour in Scotland in the 
Summer of 1814. 



160 



WORDSWORTH. 



That still invests the guardian Pass, 
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
Devoted to the tomb. 

And let no Slave his head incline, 

Or kneel, before the votive shrine 

By Uri's lake, where Tell 

Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to landj 

Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 

That day the Tyrant fell. [1814. 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(At Jnversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) 
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shoAver 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
And these grey rocks; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake; 
This little bay; a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy Abode, — 
In truth together do ye seem 
Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart : 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 
And 3^et my eyes are lill'd with tears. 

With eai-nest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far aAvay : 
For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in i)erfect innocence. 
Here scatter'd, like a random seed. 
Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
Th' embarrass'd look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness : 
Tliou Avear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! 
And seemliuess complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 



Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech; 
A bondage sweetly bi'ook'd, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
Seen birds of teiupest-loving kind, — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 

happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 

Of the wild sea ; and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could, 

Though but of common neighbourhood. 

What joy to hear thee, and to see! 

Thy elder Brother I would be. 

Thy Father, anything to thee ! 

NoAv thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is Ave prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 

Then, Avhy should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place Avas made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

Continued long as life shalMast. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 

SAveet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold, 

As I do noAV, the cabin small. 

The lake, the bay, the Avaterfall; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! * [1803. 



STEPPING WESTWARD. 

While my FelloAV- traveller and I were 
Avalking by the side of Loch Ketterine, 
one fine evening after sunset, in our 
road to a Hut Avhere, in the course of 
our Tour, Ave had been hospitably en- 
tertained some weeks before, Ave mot, in 
one of the loneliest parts of that solitary 



4 The sort of prophecy AAith which 
tliese verses conchule has, through God's 
goodness, been realised; and noAV, ap- 
proaching my 73d year, I have a most 
vivid remembrance of lier and tlie beau- 
tiful objects Avith Avhich she was sur- 
rounded. — Author's Notes. 



MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 



161 



region, two well-dressed Women, one 
of whom said to us, by way of greeting, 
"What, you are stepping westward? " 

*'WlIAT, you are stepping westward'?'''' — 
— 'Twould be a wildish destiny, [" Yea.^^ 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange Land, and far from home, 
Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
Though home or shelter he had none, 
With such a sky to lead him on? 

The dewy ground Avas dark and cold; 
Behind, all gloomy to behold; 
And stepping westward seem'd to be 
A kind of heavenly destiny : 
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound 
Of something Avithoiit place or bound ; 
And seem'd to give me spiritual right 
To ti-avel throiigh that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 
Was walking by her native lake : 
The salutation had to me 
The very sound of courtesy : 
Its power was felt; and Avhile my eye 
Was fix'd upon the^lowing Sky, 
The echo of the voice enwrought 
A human sweetness with the thought 
Of travelling through the world that lay 
Before me in my endless way. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O, listen I for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? - 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-ofi" things, 
And battles long ago : 



Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or i^aiu, 
That has been, and may be again! 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if he]- song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listen'd, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 



ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently 
known; his grave is near the head of 
Locli Ketterine, in one of those small 
pinfold-like Burial-grounds, of neglect- 
ed and desolate appearance, Avhich the 
traveller meets with in the Highlands 
of Scotland. 

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
The English ballad-singer's joy I 
And Scotland has a thief as good, 
An outlaw of as daring mood; 
She has her brave Rob Roy! 
Then clear the Aveeds from off his Grave, 
And let us chant a passing stave, 
'^\ honour of that Hero brave ! 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
And wondrous length and strength of 



Nor craved he more, to quell his foes, 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as ivise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the phrase be strong; — 
A Poet Avorthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Saj^, then, that he Avas wise as brave; 
As wise in thought as bold in deed ; 
For in the principles of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
They stir us up against our kind; 
And , worse, against ourselves. 



5 Rob Roy's arms are said to have been 
so long, that he could tie his garters beloAV 
his knees without stooping. 



162 



WORDSWORTH. 



We have a passion, — make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few : 
These find I graven on my heart : 
That tells me what to do. 

The creatures see of flood and field. 
And those that travel on the wind ! 
With them no strife can last ; they live 
In peace, and peace of mind. 

For why ? —because the good old rule 
Su£Q.ceth them, the simple plan, [power. 
That they should take who have the 
And they should keep who can. 

A lesson that is quickly learn'd, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
To wanton cruelty. 

All freakishness of mind is check'd; 
He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

All kinds and creatures stand and fall 
By strength of prowess or of wit: 
'Tis God's appointment who must sway, 
And who is to submit. 

Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
And longest life is but a day ; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived. 
Through summer heat and winter snow : 
The Eagle, he was lord above, 
And Rob was lord below% 

So was it — would, at least, have been 
But through untowardness of fate ; 
For Polity was then too strong, — 
He came an age too late ; 

Or shall we say an age too soon? 
tor, were the bold Man living now, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
With buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
Sherifls, and lairds and their domains, 



Would all have seem'd but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 

Rob Roy had never linger'd here, 
To these few meagi'e Vales (confined; 
But thought how wide the world, the times 
How fairly to his mind! 

And to his Sword he would have said, 
" Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the Earth 1 
Judge thou of law and fact! 

'Tis fit that we should do our part, 
Becoming, that mankind should learn 
That we are not to be surpass'd 
In fatherly concern. 

Of old things all are over old, 
Of good things none are good enough : — 
We'll shew that we can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death ; 
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 

And, if the word had been fulflU'd, 
As might have been, then, thought of joy I 
France would have had her present Boast, 
And we our own Rob Roy I 

O, say not so ! compare them not ! 
I would not Avrong thee. Champion brave I 
Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 

For Thou, although with some wild 

thoughts. 
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love 
The liberty of man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
With us who now behold the light. 
Thou w^ouldst have nobly stirr'd thyself. 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
The poor man's heai't, the poor man's 

hand; 
And all th' oppress'd who wanted strength 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 



MISCELLAKEOUS POEMS. 



163 



Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's braes I 

And, far and near, tlirough vale and hill, 
Are faces that attest the same ; [eyes, 
The proud heart flashing through the 
At sound of Bob Roy's name.o 



THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
AND HER HUSBAND. 

At Jedborough, my companion and I went 
into private lodgings for a few days; 
and the following Verses Avere called 
forth by the chai-acter and domestic sit- 
uation of our Hostess. 

Age, twine thy brows with fresh spring 

flowers. 
And call a train of laughing Hours; 
And bid them dance, and bid them sing; 
And thou, too, mingle in the ring! 
Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
If not, make merry in despite, 
That there is One who scorns thy power: 
But dance ! for under Jedburgh Tower 
A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
The weight of more than seventy years, 
Lives in the light of youthful glee. 
And she will dance and sing with thee. 

Nay, start not at that Figure there. 
Him who is rooted to his chair! 
Look at him, — look again; for he 
Hath long been of thy family. 
With legs that move not, if they can, 
And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
He sits, and with a vacant eye; 
A. sight to make a stranger sigh! 
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : 
His world is in this single room: 
Is this a place for mirthful cheer? 
Can merry-making enter here? 

The joyous AVoman is the Mate 



6 The reader may need to be told that, 
throughout this poem, the author implies 
a comparison between Rob Roy ajid Na- 
poleon. — Scott, in the Introduction to his 
Roh Roji, quotes a large part of tins poem, 
witli the following remark : " Supposing 
Rob Roy to have argued on the tendency 
of the life which he pursued, he would 
doubtless have assumed to himself the 
character of a brave man, who, deprived 
of his natural liglits by the partiality of 
laws, endeavoured to assert them by the 
strong nand of natural power; and he is 
most felicitously described as reasoning 
thus, in the high-toned poetry of my gifted 
friend Wordsworth." 



Of him in that forlorn estate! 
He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
But bright as Vesper shines her lamp : 
He is as mute as Jedburgh Tower: 
She jocund as it was of yore. 
With all its bravery on; in times 
When all alive with merry chimes, 
Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
It roused the Vale to holiday. 

I praise thee, Matron, and thy due 
Is praise, heroic praise, and true! 
With admiration I behold 
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
The picture of a life well spent : 
This do I see ; and something more ; 
A strength unthought of heretofore! 
Delighted am I for thy sake ; 
And yet a higher joy partake : 
Our Human-nature throws away 
Its second twilight, and looks gay; 
A land of promise and of pride 
Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 

Ah, see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
Within himself as seems, composed; 
To fear of loss and hope of gain. 
The strife of happiness and pain. 
Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
Of little infants, when their eyes 
Begin to follow to and fro 
The persons that before them go. 
He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
Where common cheerfuhaess would fail ; 
She strikes upon him Avith the heat 
Of July suns ; he feels it sweet; 
An animal delight though dim! 
'Tis all that now remains for him. 

The more I look'd, I wonder'd more; 
And, while I scann'd them o'er and o'er. 
Some inward trouble suddenly 
Broke from the Matron's strong black eye, 
A remnant of uneasy light, 
A flash of something over -bright ! 
Nor long this mystery did detain 
My thoughts : she told in pensive strain 
That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
Been stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
111 health of body ; and had pined 
Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 

So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
To Him who is our Lord and Friend 1 
Who from disease and suffering 
Hath call'd for thee a second Spring; 



164 



WORDSWORTH. 



Repaid thee for that sore distress 
By no untimely joj'onsness ; 
Which makes of thine a blissful state; 
And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 



A SCOTTISH LAKE. 

(From " The Blind Highland Boy.") 
Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
Not small like om-s, a peaceful flood ; 
But one of mighty size, and strange; 
That, I'ough or smooth, is full of change, 

And stirring in its bed. 

For to this lake, by night and day, 
The great Sea-water finds its -way 
Through long, long windings in the hills, 
And drinks up all the pretty rills 
And rivers large and strong : 

Then hurries back the road it came, — 
Returns, on errand still the same : 
This did it when the Earth was new; 
And this for evermore will do 
As long as Earth shall last. 

And, with the coming of the tide, 
Come boats and ships that safely ride 
Between the woods and lofty rocks; 
And to the sheplierds with their flocks 
Bring tales of distant lands. 



YARttOW UNVISITED. 

(See the various Poems the scene of which 
is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; 
in particular, the exquisite Ballad of 
Hamilton beginning 

'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !') 

Feom Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravell'd; 
Had ti-od the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travell'd ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome Marrow," ' 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

•' Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
Who have been buying, selling, 
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 
Each maiden to her dwelling ! 



On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow 1 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 
Isor turn aside to Yarrow. 

There's Galia Water, Leader Haughs, 
Both lying right before us ; [Tweed 

And Dryburgh, where with chiming 
The lintwhites s sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe Avith plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
That glides the dark hills under? 
Thei-e are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." — [scorn ; 
Strange words they seem'd of slight and 
My True-love sigh'd for sorrow; 
And look'd me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" O, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, " 
But we Avill leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path and open Strath, i 
We'll wander Scotland thorough : 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow! 2 
We will not see them; will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
Thei-e's such a place as Yarrow. 



7 Winsome marroiv is, Scottice, pleasant 
companion. The "winsome Marrow" in 
this case was the poet's sister. 



8 Lintwhite is the same as linnet. 

9 Alluding to a part of the ballad : 

" Sweet smells the birk, green grows the 

grass. 
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan." 

1 Strath is a flat piece of arable land 
lying on the side or sides of a capital river. 
" 2 Scott, in his notes on Marmion, has 
the following account of •' lone Saint 
Mary's silent lake": "This beautiful 
sheet of water forms the reservoir from 
which the Yarrow takes its source. It is 
connected with a smaller lake, called the 
Loch of the Lowes, anfl surrounded by 
mountains. In the Winter, it is still fre- 
quented by flights of wild swans." He 
then quotes these two lines from Words- 
worth. 



MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 



105 



Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our o^vn; 
Ah! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

If Care with freezing years should come, 

And wandering seem but folly ; 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy; 

Should life be dull, and spirits loAV, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 

That Earth has something yet to show. 

The bonny holms s of Yarrow 1 " [1803. 



YARROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814. 

And is this Yarrow? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherish'd, 

So faithfully, a Avakiug dream? 

An image that hath perish'd! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
With uncoutroll'd meanderings ; 
Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
And, thro' her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 
Is visibly delighted; 
For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save wiiere that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising Sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise, that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Wliere was it that the famous Flower 
Of Yarrow A^ale lay bleeding? * 



3 Holm is meadow, or a low, flat tract 
of rich land on the banks of a river. 

'1 Yarrow has long been an eminently 
classic stream, — made so by the tales and 
ballads which there have " a local habi- 
tation and a name." There appear to 
Uaye been several " Flowers of Yarrow." 



His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water- wraith ^ ascended thrice, 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 
The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the grove. 
The leafy grove that covers : 
And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
Th' unconquerable strength of love ; 
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decay'd. 

And pastoral melancholy.^ 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature. 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, 

Renown'd in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening 
For sportive youth to stray in ; [bloom ; 
For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
And age to wear away in ! 
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
A covert for protection 



Sir Walter Scott tells of one, a lady, named 
Mary Scott : " She was married to Walter 
Scott of Harnden, no less renowned for 
his depredations, than his bride for her 
beauty." Wordsworth's "Flower of Yar- 
row" was a youth who was waylaid and 
slain by his rival in love. The tale is told 
Avith touching simplicity and pathos in 
Hamilton's ballad. 

5 Wraith is a spectral apparition of a 
living person. Seeing such an apparition 
of one's self appears to have been re- 
garded as a fatal omen. 

6 Charles Lamb, in one of his letters, 
has the following : " I meant to have men- 
tioned Yarrow Visited, with that stanza, 
' But thou, that didst appear so fair ' ; than 
which I tliink no lovelier stanza can be 
found in the wide world of iJoetry." 



166 



WORDSWOKTII. 



Of tender thonglits, that nestle there,— 
The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this antumual day, 

The wild-wood IVuits to gather, 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'Twere no offence to reason ; 

The sober Hills that deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see, — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I Avon thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives, — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy evei'-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapours linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — 
Sad thought, which I Avould banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow! 
Will dwell with me, — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow.'' 



TAEEOW REVISITED. 

[The following Stanzas are a memorial 
of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, 
and other Friends visiting the banks of 
the YaiTow under his guidance, imme- 
diately before his departure from Ab- 
botsford, for Naples.] 

The gallant Youth, who may have gain'd. 
Or seeks, a " winsome Mari-ow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 
When first I louk'd on Yarrow: 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
Long left without a warder, 
I stood, look'd, listen'd, and with Thee, 
Great Minstrel of the Border! 



7 I seldom read or think of this poem 
without regretting tha^ my dear sister was 
not of the party; as she would have had 
so much delight in recalling the time 
when, ti-avelling togetlier in Scotland, Ave 
declin(;d going in search of this celebrated 
stream, not altogether, I will frankly con- 
fess, for the reasons assigned in the poem 
on the occasion.- — Author's Notes. 



Grave thoughts ruled Avide on that swcot 
Their dignity installing [day, 

In gentle bosoms, Avhile sere leaves 
Were on the bough, or falling; 
But breezes play'd, and sunshine gleam'd, 
The forest to embolden ; 
Redden'd the fiery hues, and shot 
Transparence thi-ough the golden. 

For busy thoughts the Stream floAv'd on 

In foamy agitation; 

And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 

No public and no private care 

The freeborn mind enthralling, 

VYe made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appear'd, the Mom of youth, 

AVith freaks of graceful folly; 

Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy; 

Past, present, futm-e, all appear'd. 

In harmony united. 

Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as YarroAV, through the AA'Oods 
And doAvn the meadow ranging, 
Did meet us AAith unalter'd face, 
Though Ave were changed and changing ; 
If, then, some natural shadoAVS spread 
Our iuAvard prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not sloAV 
Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine emploj^ment ! 

The blameless Muse, Avho trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment; 

Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 

Has o'er their pilloAV brooded; 

And Care Avaylays their steps, — a Sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! corapell'd to change 
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
For Avarm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 
And leave thy TAveed and Tiviot » 



8 Eildon is a three-headed hill, or rath- 
er a cluster of thi-ee hills, rising near Ab- 
botsford; hence afterwards described as 
" Eildon's triple height." — Cheviot is the 
name of a range of hills, AA^iich for a con- 
siderable distance forms the Scottish bor- 
der. — Tiviot is a river running nearly 
parallel Avith Cheviot-hills, and joining 
the Tweed near Kelso. 



MISCELLAN^EOUS POEMS. 



167 



For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 
May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
Preserve thy heart from sinking! 

O, while they minister to thee, 
Each vying with the other, 
May Health return to mellow Age, 
With Sti-ength, her ventui-ous brother; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
Eenown'd in song and story, 
With xmimagined beauty shine, 
Nor lose one ray of glory ! 

For Thou upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and soitow, 

Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 

And streams unkno^\'n, hills yet unseen, 

Wherever they invite Thee, 

At parent Nature's grateful call, 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be tliine, 
Such looks of love and honour 
As thy own YaiTow gave to me 
When first I gazed upon her; 
Beheld what I had fear'd to see, 
Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days. 
The holy and the tender. 



And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer. 

Did no responsive harp, no pen. 

Memorial tribute offer ? 

Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 

Her features, could they win iis, 

Unhelp'd by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us? 

Nor deem that localised Romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 

Unsanctifies our tears, — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 

Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 

Life as she is, — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that 

day 
In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 



Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 

And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 

By the " last Minstrel," (not the lastl) » 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever, YaiTOw Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive diity, 

Well pleased that future Bards should 

chant 
For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 
Dear to the common sunshine, 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 
To memory's shadowy moonshine ! lo 

[1831. 



9 Of course the allusion is to The Laif 
nf the Last Minstrel, which is supposed to 
have been chanted in Newark Castle ; and 
the words "not the last" are meant in 
compliment to Scott, whom Wordsworth 
elsewhere designates as " the whole 
world's Darling." 

10 In the Autumn of 1831 , my daughter 
and I set off from Kydal to visit Sir Wal- 
ter Scott before his departure for Italy. 
We reached Abbotsford on Monday. How 
sadly changed did I find him from the 
man I had seen so healthy, gay and liope- 
ful, a few years before ! Tlie inmates and 
guests we" found there M'ere Sir AValter, 
Major Scott, Anne Scott, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Lockhart, Mr. Liddell, his Lady and 
Brother, and Mr. Allan the painter^i and 
Mr. Laidlaw. a very old friend of Sir Wal- 
ter's. On Tuesday morning Sir Walter 
accompanied us arid most of the party to 
Newark Castle on the Yarrow. Wheii we 
alighted from the carriages, he walked 
pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in 
revisiting tliose his favourite haunts. Of 
that excursion the verses Yarrow revisited 
are a memorial. Notwithstanding the ro- 
mance that pervades Sir Walter's works, 
and attaches to many of his habits, there 
is too much pressure of fact for these 
verses to harmonise as much as I could 
wish with other poems. On our return 
in the afternoon, Ave had to cross the 
Tweed directly opposite Abbotsford. A 
rich but sad light, of rather a purple than 
a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon 
hills at that moment; and, thinking it 
proljable that it might be the last time 
Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was 
not a little moved, and expressed some of 
my feelings in the sonnet beginning, " A 
trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain." 
I first became acquainted with this great 
and amiable man in the year 1803, when 
my sister and I, making" a tour in Scot- 
laud, were hospitably received by him in 
Lasswade upon the' banks of the Esk, 
where he was then living. — Author's 
JVotes. 



168 WORDSWORTH. 

OK THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFOED, 
FOR NAPLES. 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds or weeping rain, 

Nor of the setting Sun's pathetic liglit 

Engender'd, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 

Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 

For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 

Wliile Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 

Saddens his Toice again, and yet again. 

Lift wp your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 

Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 

Blessings and praj^ers, in nobler retinue 

Than sceptred king or laurell'd conqueror knows, 

Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true. 

Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 

Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 



KILCHUEN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 

From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view, — a mined 
Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the 
shore, backed hy a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming 
stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, ap- 
pearing to rise oitt of the Avater, — mists rested upon the mountain-side, with spots 
of sunshine ; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn gi-andeur 
in the mountains, and the Castle was Avild, yet stately — not dismantled of turrets — 
nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin. — Extract from the Journal of 
my Companion. 

Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 

Eoars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 

Save when the wind sweeps by, and sounds are caught 

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 

0, there is life that breathes not ! Powers there are 

That touch each other to the quick in modes 

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive. 

No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care 

Cast off, — abandon'd by thy rugged Sire, 

Nor by soft Peace adopted ; though, in place 

And in dimension, such that thou mightst seem 

But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 

Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 

Might crush, nor know that it had suffer'd harm ;) 

Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims 

To reverence, suspends his own ; submitting 

All that the God of Nature hath conferr'd. 

All that he holds in common with the stars. 



MISCELLAN"EOUS POEMS. 169 

To the memorial majesty of Time 
Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 

Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent un reproved! 
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light 
Is fondly lingering on thy shatter'd front, 
Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite 
To pay thee homage ; and with these are join'd, 
In willing admiration and respect. 
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be call'd 
Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, 
Skeleton of unflesh'd humanity. 
The chronicle were welcome that should call 
Into the compass of distinct regard 
The toils and struggles of thy infant years ! 
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; 
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye. 
Frozen by distance : so, majestic Pile, 
To the perception of this Age, appear 
Thy fierce beginnings, soften'd and subdued 
And quieted in character, — the strife, 
The pride, the fury uncontrollable. 
Lost on th' aerial heights of the Crusades.^ [1803. 



YEW-TEEES. 



Theee is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 

Which to this day stands single, in the midst 

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they march'd 

To Scotland's heaths ; or those that cross'd the sea. 

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 

Of vast circumference and gloom profound 

This solitary Tree ! a living thing 

Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 

Of form and aspect too magnificent 

To be destroy'd. But worthier still of note 

Are those fraternal Pour of Borrowdale, 

Join'd in one solemn and capacious grove ; 

1 There is a tradition that the Castle was built by a L.acly during the absence of 
her husband in Palestine. — This piece is, to me, one of the author's grandest dis- 
plays of imaginative power; hardly inferior indeed to that which follows, under the 
heading "Yew-trees." 



170 WORDSWORTH. 

Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 

Nor uniform'd with Phantasy, and looks 

That threaten the profane ; — a pillar'd shade. 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue 

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 

Perennially, — beneath whose sable roof 

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, deck'd 

With unrejoicing berries, — ghostly Shapes 

May meet at noontide ; Fear and trem.blmg Hope, 

Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 

And Time the Shadow; — there to celebrate, 

As in a natural temple scatter'd o'er 

With altars undisturb'd of mossy stone, 

United worship ; or in mute repose 

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. ^ [1803. 



LINES 

liCft upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a deso- 
late part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. 

Nay, Traveller, rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ?" 
What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves 
That break against the shore shall lull thy mind 
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

Who he was 
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
First cover'd, and here taught this aged Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
I well remember. He was one who own'd 
No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
And led by Nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
A favoured Being, knowing no desire 

2 This superb little piece is quoted by Coleridge, as showing that, in imaginative 
power, Wordsworth " stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton." Lamb, also, in one of his letters, speaks of •' the four Yew-trees, and the mys- 
terious company assembled there, — ' Death the Skeleton, and Time the Shadow ' " ; 
and Talfourd, in a note on the passage, refers to "the poem on the four great yew- 
trees of Bon-owdale, which the poet has, by the most potent magic of the imagination, 
converted into a temple for the ghostly forms of Death and Time ' to meet at noon- 
tide,'— a passage surely not surpassed in any English poetry since the days of Mil- 
ton." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 

Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint 

Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy and hate 

And scorn, — against all enemies prepared, 

All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 

Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 

With indignation turn'd himself away, 

And with the food of pride sustain'd his soul 

In solitude. — Stranger, these gloomy boughs 

Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 

His only visitants a straggling sheep. 

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 

And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath 

And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er. 

Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 

A morbid pleasure nourish 'd, tracing here 

An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 

And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze 

On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 

Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 

Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 

The beauty, still more beauteous. Nor, that time 

When Nature had subdued him to herself, 

Would he forget those Beings to whose minds 

Warm from the labours of benevolence 

The world and human life appear'd a scene 

Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, 

Inly disturb'd, to think that others felt 

What he must never feel: and so, lost Man, 

On visionary views would fancy feed. 

Till his eye stream'd with tears. In this deep vale 

He died, — this seat his only monument. 

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure, 
Stranger, henceforth be warn'd ; and know that pride, 
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
For any living thing hath faculties 
Which he has never used; that thought with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one. 
The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
Unlawful, ever. 0, be wiser, Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 
True dignity abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 



172 WOKDSWORTH. 

Can still suspect, and still revere himself. 

In lowliness of lieart.^ [1795. 



DEDICATIOIf OF THE WHITE DOE. 

In" trellis'd shed with clustering roses gay. 

And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, 

"When years of wedded life were as a day 

Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 

Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 

How Una, sad of soul, in sad attire, 

The gentle Una, of celestial birth. 

To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the Earth. 

Ah, then. Beloved ! pleasing was the smart, 
And the tear precious in compassion shed 
For Her who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart. 
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart. 
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led; 
And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 

!N"otes could we hear as of a faery shell 
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
We by a lamentable change were taught 
That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:" 
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!* 

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow. 
For us the voice of melody was mute. 
But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot. 
Heaven's breathing influence fail'd not to bestow 

3 Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The spot was my favourite walk in 
the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual, whose liabits 
and character are here given, Avas a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of tal- 
ent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and retiu*ncd to 
pass his time in seclusion on his OAvn estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. In- 
duced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house on the rocks 
above the peninsula on which the ferry-house stands. So much used I to be de- 
lighted Avith the view from it, while a little boy, that, some years before the first 
pleasure-house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own 
age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My motive was to 
witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the 
islands below, and the intermingling watei'. I was not disappointed.— /l«f/tor's NotcH. 

4 Alluding to the death of the poet's two children, Thomas and Catharine, in 1812. 
See page 69, note 1. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 

A timely promise of unlook'd-for fruit, 
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 

It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear 
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell ; 
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 
The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel ; 
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer. 
High over hill and low adown the dell 
Again we wander'd, willing to partake 
All that she suffer'd for her dear Lord's sake. 

Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 

Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 

Is temper'd and allay'd by sympathies 

Aloft ascending, and descending deep. 

Even to th' inferior Kinds ; whom forest-trees 

Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 

Of the sharp winds ; — fair Creatures ! to whom Heaven 

A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 

This tragic Story cheer'd us ; for it speaks 
Of female patience winning firm repose ; 
And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 
A bright, encouraging example shows ; 
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, 
Needful amid life's ordinary woes ; — 
Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
A happy hour with holier happiness. 

He serves the Muses erringly and ill. 

Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive : 

0, that my mind were equal to fulfil 

The comprehensive mandate which they give! 

Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 

Yet in this moral Strain a power may live. 

Beloved Wife ! such solace to impart 

As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.^ 

ETDAL MOUXT, WESTMOEELAND, 

April 20, 1815. 

5 These beautiful stanzas, as the heading implies, were prefixed, as a dedication . 
to The White Doe of E^/lstone. That poem, though very noble as a whole, and in parts 
hardly inferior to anything the author wi'ote, is too long for reproduction here, and, 
besides, is not particularly suited to the purpose of this voliune. But I could not 
think of omitting the dedication. 



174 WORDSWORTH, 

TO . 

DEARER far than light and Hfe are dear, 
Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
Trembling, through my unwor thin ess, with fear 
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more! 

Misgivings, hard to yanquish or control, 
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
While all the future, for thy purer soul. 
With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear. 
Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; 
Yet bear me wp, — else faltering in the rear 
Of a steep march : support me to the end. 

Peace settles where the intellect is meek. 
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; 
Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : 
The faith Heaven strengthens where He moulds the Creed.* 

[1824. 



TO A SKY-LARK. 



Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood : 

A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam, 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!' [1825. 

6 This little piece also, like the precerling, was addressed to the author's wile. 
The last stanza is enough of itsell" to justify its inseition here. 

7 The Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson furnishes an apt comment on this little 
gem of song : " Wordsworth has been able to exhibit that harmony in nature and the 
world of lliought and sentiment, the detection ot which is the gi-eat feat of the real 
poet. To take one single illustration. In his poem on the Sky-lark, he terminates liis 
description of the i)ird mounting high, and yet never leaving'hcr nest over which she 
hovers, with — 'True to the kLudretl points of Heaven and Home." Such a line as 
this is an acquisition ; for here is admirably insinuated the connection between the 
domestic aflections and the religious feelings, which is important in moral philoso- 
phy, coupled with the fanciful analogy to an instinct in the bird. Wordsworth's 
poems abound in these beauties." 



MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 175 

TO A SKY-LARK. 

Hail, blest above all kinds! — Supremely skill'd 
Restless with fix'd to balance, high with low, 
Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build 
On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
Perpetual flight, uncheck'd by earthly ties, 
Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 

Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove ! 

Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; 

So constant with thy downward eye of love, 

Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 

So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 

In power of wing and never-wearied vpice. 

To the last point of vision, and beyond. 

Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 

('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 

Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 

All independent of the leafy Spring. 

How would it please old Ocean to partake, 
With sailors longing for a breeze in vain. 
The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
Where earth resembles most his own domain ! 
Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear 
These matins mounting towards her native sphere. 

Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars 

To day-light known deter from that pu^rsuit, 

'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars 

Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute ; 

For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 

Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! ® [1828. 



Time flows, — nor winds, 
Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course. 
But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, 
No one knoAvs how ; nor seldom is put forth 
An angry arm that snatches good away, 
Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 

8 These stanzas are from a poem entitled 4 Morning Exercise. The author himself 
says in his notes, " I could wish tlie last live stanzas of this to be read with the poem 
addressed to the sky -lark." 



176 



WORDSWORTH. 

Has to our generation brought and brings 

Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now 

Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 

To a chill'd age, most pitiably shut out 

From that which is and actuates, by forms, 

Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 

Minutely link'd with diligence uninspired, 

Unrectifled, unguided, unsustain'd, 

By godlike insight. To this fate is doom'd 

Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be 

Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. 

So with th' internal mind it fares ; and so 

With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear 

Of vital principle's controlling law. 

To her purblind guide Expediency; and so 

Suffers religious faith. Elate with yiew 

Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 

The best that should keep pace with it, and must, 

Else more and more the general mind will droop, 

Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 

No faculty within us which the Soul 

Can spare ; and humblest earthly Weal demands. 

For dignity not placed beyond her reach. 

Zealous co-operation of all means 

Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire. 

And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 

By gross Utilities enslaved we need 

More of ennobling impulse from the past. 

If to the future aught of good must come 

Sounder and therefore holier than the ends 

Which, in the giddiness of self -applause. 

We covet as supreme. 0, grant the crown 

That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff 

From Knowledge ! » [1837. 



PEESONAL TALK. 



I AM not One who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, 

9 These lines are a small part of a poem entitled Musings near Aquapendente, The 
whole poem is too long for this place, and is written in the author's severest style. 
The narrowing and dwarfing and drying effect of science exclusively pursued, 
■while the world of moral and imaginative reason is discarded or lost sight of, was a 
favourite theme Avith Wordsworth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 

Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, — 
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.^ 

" Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 

And with a living pleasure we describe ; 

And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 

The languid mind into activity. 

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee 

Are foster d by the comment and the gibe." 

Even be it so : yet still among your tribe. 

Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! 

Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 

More justly balanced ; partly at their feet. 

And part far from them : — sweetest melodies 

Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; 

Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. 

He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 

Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 

We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood. 

Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 

Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 

Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 

Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 

Eound these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 

Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 

There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 

Matter wherein right voluble I am, 

To which I listen with a ready ear ; 

Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 

The gentle Lady married to the Moor, 

And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 

ISTor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine : for thus I live remote 

1 Written at Townend, Grasmere. The last line but tAvo stood, at fix-st, better and 
more characteristically, thus : " By my hall-kitchen and half-parlour fire." My sister 
and I were in the habit of having the tea-kettle in our little sitting-room. — By the by, 
I have a spite at one of this series of sonnets, (I will leave the reader to discover 
which,) as having been the means of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintance 
with dear Miss Femvick, who has always stigmatised one line of it as Auilgar, and 
worthy only of having been composed by a country squire. — Author^s Notes. 



178 WORDSWORTH. 

From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought. 

Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought; 

And thus from day to day my little boat 

Eocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 

Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, — 

The Poets, who on Earth have made us heirs 

Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 

! might my name be number'd among theirs, 

Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 



GRACE DAELING. 



Among the dwellers in the silent fields • 

The natural heart is touch'd, and public way 

And crowded street resound with ballad strains, 

Inspired by ojte whose very name bespeaks 

Favour divine, exalting human love; 

Whom, since her birth on bleak Nothumbria's coast, 

Known unto few but prized as far as known, 

A single Act endears to high and low 

Through the whole land, — to Manhood, moved in spite 

Of the world's freezing cares, — to generous Youth, — 

To Infancy, that lisps her praise, — to Age 

Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear 

Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 

Awaits her noio; but, verily, good deeds 

Do no imperishable record find 

Save in the rolls of Heaven, where hers may live 

A theme for angels, when they celebrate 

The high-soul'd virtues which forgetful Earth 

Has witness'd. 0, that winds and waves could speak 

Of things which their united power call'd forth 

From the pure depths of her humanity ! 

A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call. 

Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse rear'd 

On th' Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; 

Or like th' invincible Rock itself that braves. 

Age after age, the hostile elements. 

As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 

All night the storm had raged, nor ceased nor paused. 
When, as day broke, the Maid through misty air 
Espies far off a Wreck amid the surf 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 

Beating on one of those disastrous isles, — 

Half of a Vessel, half, — no more ; the rest 

Had vanished, swallow'd up with all that there 

Had for the common safety striven in yain. 

Or thither throng'd for refuge. With quick glance 

Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern. 

Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 

Creatures, — how precious in the Maiden's sight ! 

For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more 

Than for their fellow-sufferers engulf 'd 

Where every parting agony is hush'd, 

And hope and fear mix not in further strife. 

"But courage. Father! let us out to sea; 

A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, 

Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith. 

Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they lack 

The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 

To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheer'd, 

And inwardly sustain'd by silent prayer, 

Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 

Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go, 

Rivals in effort; and, alike intent 

Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 

The billows lengthening, mutally cross'd 

And shatter'd, and re-gathering their might ; 

As if the tumult, by th' Almighty's will. 

Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolong'd, 

That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved — 

May brighten more and more ! 

True to the mark. 
They stem the current of that perilous gorge, 
Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening heart. 
Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, becomes 
More imminent. Not unseen do they approach; 
And rapture, with varieties of fear 
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
Of those who, in that dauntless energy, 
Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturb'd 
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
That of the pair — toss'd on the waves to bring 
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 
A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 
In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, 
Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 



180 WORDSWORTH. 

Arm'd to repel them ? Every hazard faced 

And difficulty master'd, with resolve 

That no one breathing should be left to perish. 

This last remainder of the crew are all 

Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 

Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 

And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 

Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — Shout, ye Waves ! 

Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, 

Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 

In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! 

Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! 

And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice 

Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 

Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips 

Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear, — 

Blended with praise of that parental love. 

Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew 

Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave, 

Though young so wise, though meek so resolute, — 

Might carry to the clouds and to the stars. 

Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darlikg's name ! * [1842. 



TO THE CLOUDS. 



Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops 
Ascending from behind the motionless brow 
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
0, whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
What seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale 
Companions, fear ye to be left behind. 
Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
Contend ye with each other ? of the sea 
Children, thus post ye over vale and height. 
To sink upon your mother's lap, — and rest ? 
Or were ye rightlier hail'd, when first mine eyes 
Beheld in jonr impetuous march the likeness 
Of a wide army pressing on to meet 
Or overtake some unknown enemy? — 
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; 

2 In a letter to Sir William Gomm, dated March 24, 1843, the poet pyrites as fol- 
lows: "The inhumanity with which the shipwrecked were lately treated upon the 
French coast impelled me to place in contrast the conduct of an English woman and 
her parents under like circumstances, as it occurred some years ago. Almost im- 
mediately after I had composed my tribute to the memory of Grace Darling, I learnt 
that the Queen and Queen Dowager had both just subscribed towards the erection 
of a monument to record her heroism, upon the spot that witnessed it." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181 

And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares 

Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds 

Aerial, upon due migration bound 

To milder climes : or rather do ye urge 

In caravan your hasty pilgrimage, 

To pause at last on more aspiring heights 

Than these, and utter your devotion there 

With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant, 

And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, 

Be present at his setting ? or the pomp 

Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand 

Poising your splendours high above the heads 

Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ? 

Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness ol speed ? 

Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, are fled, 

Buried together in yon gloomy mass 

That loads the middle heaven ; and clear and bright 

And vacant doth the region which they throng'd 

Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting 

Down to the unapproachable abyss, 

Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose 

To vanish ; fleet as days and months and years, 

Fleet as the generations of mankind. 

Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, 

The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. 

But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees. 

And, see ! a bright precursor to a train. 

Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 

That sullenly refuses to partake 

Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 

Invisible, the long procession moves 

Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 

Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye 

That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, 

And in the bosom of the firmament 

O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, 

A type of her capacious self and all 

Her restless progeny. 

A humble walk 
Here is my body doom'd to tread, this path, 
A little hoary line and faintly traced, — 
Work, shall we call it, of tlie shepherd's foot 
Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both. 
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
Admit no bondage, and my words have wings. 
Where is th' Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 



182 WOEDSWORTH. 

To accompany the verse ? The mountain blast 

Shall be our hnnd of music ; lie shall sweep 

The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, 

And search the fibres of the caves, and they 

Shall answer ; for our song is of the Clouds, 

And the wind loves them ; and the gentle gales — 

Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn 

With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 

And moisten the parch'd lips of thirsty flowers — 

Love them ; and every idle breeze of air 

Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars 

Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds 

Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 

Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, 

As if some Protean art the change had wrought. 

In listless quiet o'er th' ethereal deep 

Scatter'd, a Cyclades of various shapes 

And all degrees of beauty. ye Lightnings ! 

Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the Sun — 

Source inexhaustible of life and joy. 

And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore 

Li old time worshipp'd as the god of verse, 

A blazing intellectual deity — 

Loves his own glory in their looks ; and showers 

Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 

Visions with all but beatific light 

Enrich'd, — too transient were they not renew'd 

From age to age, and did not, while we gaze 

In silent rapture, credulous desire 

Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power 

To keep the treasure unimpair'd. Vain thought ! 

Yet why repine, created as we are 

For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 

Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? 



*' Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
Wi' the aulcl moone in hir arme." 
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Eeliques. 

Okce I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 

The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 

No faculty yet given me to espy 

The dusky Shape within her arms imbound. 

That thin memento of effulgence lost 

Which some have named her Predecessor's ghost 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 

Young, like the Crescent that above me shone, 
Nought I perceived within it dull or dim ; 
All that appear'd was suitable to One 
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim ; 
To expectations spreading with wild growth, 
And hope that kept with me her plighted troth. 

I saw (ambition quickening at the view) 
A silver boat launch'd on a boundless flood ; 
A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood ; 
But not a hint from under-ground, no sign 
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 

Or was it Dian's self that seem'd to move 
Before me ? — nothing blemish'd the fair sight ; 
On her I look'd whom jocund Fairies love, 
Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight. 
And by that thinning magnifies the great. 
For exaltation of her sovereign state. 

And when I learn'd to mark the spectral Shape 
As each new Moon obey'd the call of Time, 
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
To see or not to see, as best may please 
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 

ISTow, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st my glance, 
Thy dark Associate ever I discern ; 
Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern ; 
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain 
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 

So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 

A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring 

The timely insight that can temper fears. 

And from vicissitude remove its sting ; 

While Faith aspires to seats in that domain 

Where joys are perfect, — neither wax nor wane. [1826. 



TO THE MOOK 

{Composed by the sea-side, — on the coast of Cumberland.) 

Wa:n'deeee, that stoop'st so low", and com'st so near 
To human life's unsettled atmosphere ; 



1S4 WORDSWOKTH. 

Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake, 

So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; 

And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, 

Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; 

What pleasure once encomjoass'd those sweet names 

Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, 

An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 

I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore 

Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 

That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's Friekd : 

So call thee for Heaven's grace through thee made known 

By confidence supplied and mercy shown. 

When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 

Abates the perils of a stormy night ; 

And for less obvious benefits, that find 

Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind ; 

Both for th' adventurer starting in life's prime ; 

And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, 

Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins. 

And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains. 

Th' aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, 
Empress of Night! are gladden'd by thy beams; 
A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
And penetrates the forest's inmost shades ; 
Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, 
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb ; 
Canst reach the Prisoner, — to his grated cell 
AVelcome, though silent and intangible! — 
And lives there one, of all that come and go 
On the great waters toiling to and fro, 
One, who has watch'd thee at some quiet hour 
Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, 
Or cross'd by vapoury streaks and clouds that move 
Catching the lustre they in part reprove ; 
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, 
And make the serious happier than the gay? 

Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright 
Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite. 
To fiercer mood the frenzy-stricken brain, 
Let me a compensating faith maintain ; 
That there's a sensitive, a tender part 
Which thou canst toucli in every human heart, 
For healing and composure. — But, as least 
And mightiest billows ever have confess'd 
Thy domination ; as the whole vast Sea 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 

Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ; 
So shines that countenance with especial grace 
On them who urge the keel her plams to trace, 
Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, 
Cut off from home and country, may have stood, — 
Even till long gazing hath hedimm'd his eye, 
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh, — 
Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
With some internal lights to memory dear. 
Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast 
Tired with its daily share of Earth's unrest, — 
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek ; 
A kindly influence whereof few will speak. 
Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. 

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave 
Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave ; 
Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea 
Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free. 
Paces the deck, — no star perhaps in sight. 
And nothing save the moving ship's own light 
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night, — 
Oft with his musings does thy image blend. 
In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend. 
And thou art still, Moon, that Sailor's Frien-d ! [1835. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT.^ 

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 

Due to the day's unfinish'd task; of pen 

Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 

In Nature's prodigality display'd 

Before my window, — oftentimes and long 

I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 

Of beauty never ceases to enrich 

The common light ; whose stillness charms the air. 

Or seems to charm it, into like repose ; 

Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear. 

Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits. 

With emblematic purity attired 

In a white vest, white as her marble neck 

Is, and the pillar of the throat would be, 

3 This portrait was from the pencil of Mr. F. Stone. The poet speaks of it thus 
in his notes, 1843 : " This portrait has hung for many years in our principal sitting- 
room, and represents J. Quillinan, as she Avas when a girl. The picture, though 
somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect; it is chiefly 
valuable, however, for the sentiment that pervades it." 



186 WORDSWORTH. 

But for the shadow by the drooping chin 

Cast into that recess ; — the tender shade, 

The shade and light, both there and everywhere, 

And through the very atmosphere she breathes. 

Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 

That might from Nature have been learnt in th' hour 

When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread 

Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 

Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, 

Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft 

Intensely ; — from Imagination take 

The treasure ; what mine eyes behold see thou. 

Even though th' Atlantic ocean roll between. 

A silver line, that runs from brow to crown. 
And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
The golden harvest gows in; and those eyes. 
Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
Whose azure depth their colour emulates. 
Must needs be conversant with upward looks. 
Prayer's voiceless service : but now, seeking nought 
And shunning nought, their own peculiar life 
Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
Partake its inclination towards the earth 
In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 

Offspring of soul -bewitching Art, make me 
Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that air 
Of calm abstraction ? Can the ruling thought 
Be with some lover far away, or one 
Cross'd by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
Crescent in simple loveliness serene. 
Has but approch'd the gates of womanhood, 
Not enter'd them: her heart is yet unpierced 
By the blind Archer-god ; her fancy free : 
The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere. 
Will not be found. 

Her right hand, as it lies 
Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, join'd. 
As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopp'd 
And in their common birthplace shelter'd it 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 

Till they were pluck'd together ; a blue flower 
Call'd by the thrifty husbandman a weed : 
But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held 
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, 
(Her Father told her so,) in youth's gay dawn 
Her Mother's favourite ; and the orphan Girl, 
In her own dawn, — a dawn less gay and bright, — 
Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. — 
Not from a source less sacred is derived 
(Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
Of calm abstraction though the face diffused 
And the whole person. 

Words have something told 
More than the pencil can, and verily 
More than is needed ; but the precious Art 
Forgives their interference, — Art divine. 
That both creates and fixes, in despite 
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. 
Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! 
That posture, and the look of filial love 
Thinking of past and gone, with what is left 
Dearly united, might be swept away 
From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
Banish'd, nor ever, haply, be restored 
To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
So exquisite ; but here do they abide. 
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 
Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
In visible quest of immortality, 

Stretch'd forth with trembling hope ? In every realm, 
From high Gilbraltar to Siberian plains. 
Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
That Europe knows, would echo this appeal ; 
One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
In the magnific Convent built of yore 
To sanctify th' Escurial palace.* He — 
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, 
A British Painter,^ (eminent for truth 
In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
By labours that have touch'd the hearts of kings, 

4 The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has. 
in common usage, lost its proper name in tliat of the E'ic.urial, a village at the foot of 
the hill upon Avhicli the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. 

6 This " British Painter " was Wilkie. 



188 WORDS WOETH, 

And are endear'd to simple cottagers,) 

Came, in that service, to a glorious work. 

Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first 

Th' appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand. 

Graced the Eef ectory : and there, while both 

Stood with eyes fix'd upon that masterpiece. 

The hoary Father in the stranger's ear 

Breathed out these words : " Here daily do we sit. 

Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here. 

Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, 

And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, 

Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze 

Upon this solemn Company unmoved 

By shock of circumstance or lapse of years, 

Until I cannot but believe that they, — 

They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." 

So spake the mild Jeronymite,® his griefs 
Melting away within him like a dream 
Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak : 
And I, grown old, but in a happier land. 
Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consign'd 
In thy calm presence those heart-moving words ; 
Words that can soothe, more than they agitate ; 
Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
Informs the fountain in the human breast 
Which by the visitation was disturb'd. 

But why this stealing tear ? Companion mute, 
On thee I look, not sorrowing : fare thee well, 
My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell ! [1834. 



NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 



COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, KEAH CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 

Pair Star of evening, Splendour of the West, 
Star of my country ! on th' horizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest. 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Shouldst be my Country's emblem ; and shouldst wink, 

6 The anecdote of the saving of the monk, in sight of Titian's picture, was told 
me in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, lirsL communicated to the public 
in this poem, which I was composing at the time Southey hoard the story from Miss 
Hutchinson, and transferred it to The Doctor. — Author's Notes, 1813. 



N"ATIONAL Iiq-DEPENDEITCE AKD LIBERTY. 189 

Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
Among men who do not love her, linger here.^ 

CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind. 

Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 

Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree. 

Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, 

Post forward all, like creatures of one kind. 

With first-firuit offerings crowd to bend the knee 

In France, before the new-born Majesty. 

'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 

A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 

But that's a loyal virtue, never sown 

In haste, nor springing with a transient shower : 

When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown. 

What hardship had it been to wait an hour ? 

Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! ® 

1801. 

I GRIEVED for Buonaparte,^ with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
Of that Man's mind, — what can it be ? what food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain ? 
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good. 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: 

7 In the Summer of 1802, "Wordsworth and his sister made a short visit to France , 
and an-ived at Calais on the 31st of July. Of this trip Miss Wordsworth wrote a 
brief Diary, noting the things that particularly interested them during their stay at 
Calais. The Diary furnishes the following in illustration of this sonnet : " Delightful 
walks in the evening; seeing far off in the West the coast of England, like a cloud, 
crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the gloiy of the sky : the reflections 
in the Avater were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves brighter than 
precious stones for ever melting away upon the sands." 

8 Early iu August, 1802, Napoleon was made First Consul for life, with the whole 
forces of the State centred in his hands. Of course the nation was in transports at 
this swift progress backwards towards the one-man power and the despotism of the 
sword. 

9 Napoleon was by birth and blood an Italian, both his parents being of that stock, 
and was born February 5, 1768. Corsica was incorporated with France in June fol- 
lowing; and he afterwards gave out that he was born in August, 1769, that he might 
pass for a Frenchman by birth. Wordsworth always gives the name with the Italian 
pronunciation. It is said that Napoleon took it in dudgeon to have his name so pro- 
nounced. 



190 WORDSWORTH. 

Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with "vveek-day man in th' hourly walk ^ 
Of the mind's business, — these are the degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 

CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 

Festivals have I seen that were not names: 
This is young Buonaparte's natal day. 
And his is henceforth an establish'd sway, — 
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims 
Her apjirohation, and with pomps and games. 
Heaven grant that other cities may he gay ! 
Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
His business as he likes. Far other show 
My youth here witness'd,^ in a prouder time ; 
The senselessness of joy was then sublime! 
Happy is he who, caring not for Pope, 
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
The destiny of Man, and live in hojDe.^ 

Oiq- THE EXTIKCTIOK OE THE VEKETIAIT REPUBLIC. 

Okce did She hold the gorgeous East in fee ; 

And was the safeguard of the West : the worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 

'No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 

And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 

She must es]3ouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade. 

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reach'd its final day : 

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 

Of that which once was great is pass'd away.® 

1 Alluding to the poet'a first visit to France, which was in the Summer of 1790, 
when the revolutionary ardour was in its full glow of triumph and hope, and Words- 
worth himself was in full sympathy with it. 

3 At this time, 1802, the poet was all out of heart for the cause of freedom in 
France : on the Continent of Europe he could see nothing hut arguments of despair. 
In this state of things, with all the surroundings looking so dark, he might well 
think that, if men would find any thing to sustain their hopes, they must search 
within, and explore the better forces of luiman nature in tbeir own breasts. 

S Venice was ruthlessly seized by Napoleon in 179G, lier government revolution, 
ized into fraternity with that of France; and finally she was made over by him to 
Austria in the treaty of Lcoben, April, 1791. 



iq-ATIOKAL INDEPENDEIfCE AKD LIBEKTY. 191 

TO T0USSAI2!TT l'OUVERTURK 

ToussAiN'T, the most unliappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling Eustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? * Yet die not ; do thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
There's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 

COMPOSED IK THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, OX THE DAY OF 
LAI^DING. 

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. 
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound 
Of bells : — those boys who in 5^on meadow-ground 
In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the roar 
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ; — 
All, all are English. Oft have I look'd round 
With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass. 
Thought for another moment. Thou art free. 
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride 
For one hour's joerfect bliss, to tread the grass 
Of England once again, and hear and see. 
With such a dear companion at my side. 

SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. 

The coast of France, — the coast of France how near ! 

Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.^ 

4 This heroic Negro chief was the most redoubted champion for the freedom 
which the Constituent Assembly had given to the slaves of Saint Domingo. In 1802, 
Napoleon sent over a large army, to regain possession of the island, and bring it 
back to its old condition. After *a long resistance, Toussaint was at last treacher- 
ously ensnared and captured, and sent to France. For some time it was not known 
what became of him; but he is now said to have been confined in the castle of Joux, 
in the Jura, where he died soon after, whether by natural or violent means, is un- 
known. 

5 I quote again fi-om Miss Wordsworth's Diary : " On the 29th August left Calais 
at twelve in the morning for Dover; bathed, and sat on the Dover cliffs, and looked 
upon France : we could see the shores ahnost as plain as if it were but an English 
lake.'' 



192 WOKDSWORTH. 

I shrunk ; for verily the harrier flood 
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 
Only, the JSTations shall be great and free. 



THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 

One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou f ought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 

Then cleave, O, cleave to that which still is left ; 

For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! ® 

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 

Friend ! I know not which way I must look 

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest. 

To think that now our life is only drest 

For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 

Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook 

In th' open sunshine, or we are unblest : 

The wealthiest man among us is the best : 

ISTo grandeur now in nature or in book 

Delights us. Kapine, avarice, expense. 

This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 

Plain living and high thinking are no more : 

6 This magnificent sonnet was a faithful echo of the grief and indignation felt all 
over Europe at the event in question. In 1802, Napoleon invaded Switzerland with 
such forces as it Avas liopeless to resist : the old Swiss Confederacy of Republics 
was soon broken up, and all ci-ushed into such shape as the invader pleased. All 
in glaring defiance of the most solemn and stringent ti-eaties. See Coleridge's Ode 
on France in a subsequent part of this volume. 



NATIOiTAL IJSTDEPEJq^DEKCE AlTD LIBEET^. 193 

The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathing household laws.' 

LOISTDOIS", 1802. 

MiLTOiq"! thou shouldst be living at this hour; 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
Fireside, th' heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
0, raise us up, return to us again ! 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



Geeat men have been among us ; hands that peiln'd 

And tongues that utter'd wisdom, — better none : 

The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 

These moralists could act and comprehend : 

They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 

In splendour ; what strength was, that would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange. 

Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 

Perpetual emptiness 1 unceasing change ! 

'No single volume paramount, no code, 

No master spirit, no determined road ; 

But equally a want of books and men ! 



It is not to be thought of that the Flood 

Of British freedom, which, to th' open sea 

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flow'd, '^ with pomp of waters, unwithstood," — 

Eoused though it be full often to a mood 

7 This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I 
could not but he sti-uck, as here described, with the vanit\' and parade of our own 
country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I 
may say the desolation, that the revolution had produced in France. Tliis must be 
borne in mind, or else the reader may think that in this and the succeeding sonnets 
I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered amoug us by undisturbed 
wealth. — Author s Notes, 1843. 



194 WOKDSWOETH. 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands, — 
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands 
Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
Armoury of th' invincible Knights of old : 
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



Whek I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed ? 
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
And I by my affection was beguiled : 
What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
Among the many movements of his mind. 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

OCTOBER, 1803. 

Oke might believe that natural miseries 
Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
Unfit for men ; and that in one great band 
Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. 
But 'tis a chosen soil, where Sun and breeze 
Shed gentle favours : rural works are there. 
And ordinary business without care ; 
Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please ! 
How piteous then that there should be such dearth 
Of knowledge ; that whole myriads should unite 
To work against themselves such fell despite ; 
Should come in frenzy and in drunken mirth. 
Impatient to put out the only light 
Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth.® 



There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
Tlian his who breathes, by roof and iloor and wall 

8 In the Spring and Summer of 1803, Napoleon made vast preparations, both in 
troops and ships, for the invasion of England; and the French people were wild 
with joy at the prospect of crvishing. their old rival. 



NATIONAL INDEPEKDENCE AND LIBEKTT. 195 

Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
'Tis his who walks about in th' open air, 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
With Human-nature ? Never be it ours 
To see the Sun how brightly it will shine. 
And know that noble feelings, manly powers. 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine ; 
And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 

OCTOBER, 1803. 
These times strike money'd worldlings with dismay : 
Even rich men, braye by nature, taint the air 
With words of apprehension and despair: 
While tens of thousands, thinking on th' aJffray, — 
Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
Sound, healthy children of the God of Heaven, — 
Are cheerful as the risiug Sun in May. 
What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
That every gift of noble origin 
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
That virtue and the faculties within 
Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death ? 



England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean 

Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 

The truth should now be better understood : 

Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 

Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 

But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 

If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 

Aught good were destined, thou wouldst step between. 

England ! all nations in this charge agree : 

But worse, more ignorant in love and hate. 

Far, far more abject, is thine Enemy : 

Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 

Of thy offences be a hea^^ weiglit : 

0, grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee ! 

OCTOBER, 1803. 
When, looking on the present face of things, 
I see one Man, of men the meanest too. 



196 WOEDSWORTH. 

Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, 
Witli mighty Nations for his underlings. 
The great events with which old story rings 
Seem vain and hollo\v ; I find nothing great; 
Nothing is left which I can venerate : 
So that a doubt almost within me springs 
Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God I 
I measure back the steps which I liave trod; 
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength 
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime 
I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 

JyTOVEMBER, 1806. 

Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know 
That in ourselves our safety must be sought; 
That by our own right hands it must be wrought; 
That we must stand unpropp'd, or be laid low. 
dastard, whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
Be men who hold its many blessings dear. 
Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band. 
Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
And honour which they do not understand.® 

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OE GRASMERE LAKE. 1807. 

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 

Through the grey West ; and lo ! these waters, sleel'd 

By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 

A vivid repetition of the stars ; 

Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 

Amid his fellows beauteously reveal'd 

At happy distance from earth's groaning field, 

Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 

Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 

Opening to view th' abyss in which she feeds 

Her own calm fires ? — But, list ! a voice is near ; 

Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 

9 r am not certain Avhether this superb sonnet refers to Austria or to Prussia; 
perhaps to both. On the 2d of December, 1805, was fought the bnttlc of Austerlitz, 
by which the Austrian Empire Avas prostrated; and on the 11th of October, 1806, the 
battle of Jena, whicli laid the Prussian Monarchy in the dust. 



KATIOI^AL INDEPEKDENCE A2^D LIBERTY. 197 

" Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 

1808. 

!N'OT 'mid the World's vain objects that enslave 
The free-born Soul, — that World whose vaunted skill 
In selfish interest perverts the will, 
Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave, — 
Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill 
With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
Down their steep beds, that never shall be still ; — 
Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sublime 
. I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain ; 
For her consult the auguries of time. 
And through the human heart explore my way ; 
And look and listen, — gathering, whence I may, 
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.^ 

HOEFEE. 

Oe mortal parents is the Hero born 

By whom th' undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 

Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 

Eeturn'd to animate an age forlorn ? 

He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 

When dreary darkness is discomfited; 

Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 

That simj)le crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 

Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 

From van to rear, and with one mind would flee. 

But half their host is buried : — rock on rock 

Descends : — beneath this godlike Warrior, see ! 

Hills, torrents, Avoods, embodied to bemock 

The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.^ 

1 It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered into the 
struggle carried on by Spaniards for their deliverance from the usurped power of 
the Fi'ench. Many times have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we 
were then residing, to the top of Raise-gap, as it is called, so late as two o'clock in 
the morning, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick.— Author's 
Notes, 1843. 

2 The Tyrolese, a simple, pious, patriotic people, were immovably steadfast in 
their attachment to Austria. Andrew Hoffer was a peasant hero, under whose lead- 
ing the pastoral natives, men, women, and children, gathered, to resist the invading 
French and Bavarians ; and so stout and skilful was their resistance, that Napoleon 
had to send army after anny against them. On one occasion they drew the enemy 
into a defile: the woods wei-e silent; not a musket or armed man to be seen on the 
cliffs; when suddenly a crackling sound was heard; and immediately iiuge masses 
of rock and heaps of rubbish on the heights aliove, which had been propped by 
gigantic firs, came thundering down, and crushed whole squadrons and companies 
at once. 



198 WORDSWOKTH. 

Advan'ce, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed; 
Sweet Nymph, 0, rightly of the monntains named !^ 
Thro' the long chain of Aljos from mound to mound, 
And o'er th' eternal snows, like Echo, bound ; 
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 
Have roused her from her sleep ; and forest-lawn, 
Cliffs, woods and caves her viewless steps resound. 
And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread Power! 
With such invisible motion speed thy flight, 
Thro' hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, 
Thro' the green vales and thro' the herdsman's bower. 
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, 
Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 

FEELIKGS OF THE TYROLESE. 

The Land we from our fathers had in trust. 

And to our children will transmit, or die : 

This is our maxim, this our piety ; 

And God and Nature say that it is just. 

That which we loould perform in arms, we must ! 

We read the dictate in the infant's eye ; 

In the wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; 

And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 

Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 

Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 

Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind ! ' 

While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd. 

With weapons grasp'd in fearless hands, to assert 

Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 



Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 

Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; 

Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will. 

And lead us on to that transcendent rest 

Where every passion shall the sway attest 

Of Eeason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 

What is it but a vain and curious skill. 

If sapient Germany must lie deprest 

Beneatli the brutal sword ? Her haughty Schools 

Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 

A few" strong instincts and a few plain rules. 

Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 

8 So in Milton's UA llegro, 136 : 

«• And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.** 



NATIONAL li^DEPEI^DENCE AN'D LIBERTY. 199 

More for mankind at this unhappy day 
Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 



And is it among rude untutor'd Dales, 
There, and there only, that the heart is true ? 
And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
Ah no ! though Nature's dread protection fails, 
There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew 
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt 
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 
Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear ; 
And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt 
The bread which without industry they find. 



O'er the wide Earth, on mountain and on plain, 

Dwells in th' affections and the soul of man 

A Godhead, like the universal Pai^ ; 

But more exalted, with a brighter train : 

And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 

Shower'd equally on city and on field. 

And neither hope nor steadfast promise jdeld 

In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 

Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven ! 

We know the arduous strife, th' eternal laws 

To which the triumph of all good is given, — 

High sacrifice, and labour without pause. 

Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 

Of man converse with immortality ? 

01^ the ril^AL SUBMISSIOiq- OF THE TYROLESB. 

It was a 7noraI end for which they fought ; 

Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame. 

Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, 

A resolution, or enlivening thought ? 

Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; 

For in their magnanimity and fame 

Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim 

Which neither can be overturn'd nor bought. 

Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills repose ! 

We know that ye, beneath the stern control 

Of awful prudence, keep th' unvanquish'd soul : 



200 WORDSWOETH. 

And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
Europe breaks forth ; then. Shepherds ! shall ye rise 
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 



Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold. 
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
These desolate remains are trophies high 
Of more than martial courage in the breast 
Of peaceful civic virtue : they attest 
Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
Blood flow'd before thy sight without remorse ; 
Disease consumed thy vitals ; War upheaved 
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force: 
Dread trials ! yet encounter'd and sustain'd 
Till not a wreck of help or hope remain'd. 
And law was from necessity received.* 



Say, what is Honour ? — 'Tis the finest sense 
Of justice which the human mind can frame. 
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, 
And guard the way of life from all offence 
Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
Invades a Eealm, so press'd that in the scale 
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail. 
Honour is hopeful elevation, — whence 
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill 
Endanger'd States may yield to terms unjust; 
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto tlie dust, 
A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil : 
Happy occasions oft by self -mistrust 
Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 



The martial courage of a day is vain. 
An empty noise of death the battle's roar, 



4 The siege of Saragossa was one of the most memorable passages in the dread- 
ful wars of those times. Here, again, men, women, and children worked together 
day and night in defence of their altars and their homes. Week after week, month 
after month, they held out against the French : there was a large army of besiegers ; 
many assaults were made, still the place was not carried : to the common horrors of 
war was added a plague that &wept off many thousands. After the walls were bat- 
tered down, the Spaniards still fought their ground inch by inch : and at one stage 
of the contest tlie dead and dying lay heaped on each other to the depth of several 
feet; but, mounting tl\e ghastly iJile, the foemen still kept up the fight for hours to- 
gether; and repeatediy, while they were fast locked in the struggle, the whole, dead, 
dying, and combatants, were blown into the air together by the explosion of mines 
beneath. And, after all, it was the pestilence, not the arms of the French, that in- 
duced a capitulation and surrender. 



NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 201 

If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain. 
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain 
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore 
A weight of hostile corses : drench'd with gore 
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heap'd with slain. 
Yet see, (the mighty tumult overpast,) 
Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold ! 
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
Murder'd, like one ashore by shipwreck cast, 
Murder'd without relief.^ 0, blind as bold, 
To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 



Beave Schill ! by death deliyer'd, take thy flight 

From Prussia's timid region." Go, and rest 

With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest, 

Or in the fields of empyrean light. 

A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night : 

Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, 

Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 

Fix'd as a star : such glory is thy right. 

Alas ! it may not be ; for earthly fame 

Is Fortune's frail dependant: yet there lives 

A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 

To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 

Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 

In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 



Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
His vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
Hath follow'd wheresoe'er a way was made 
By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undismay'd ; 
And so hath gain'd at length a prosperous height, 
Round which the elements of worldly might 
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
0, joyless power that stands by lawless force ! 

5 The gentle and heroic Hoffer vras at last betrayed, captnred, and brought to a 
court-martial ; and Napoleon, on learning that the court would not convict him, sent a 
peremptoiy order for him to be put to death within twenty-four hours. A most 
mean and execrable murder ! 

6 Schill was a Prussian colonel, and something of a poet withal, whose patriotic 
songs did much to rekindle the old national spirit in his counti-ymen. While Napo- 
leon was holding Prussia under his feet year after year, and was fleecing, skinning, 
and plucking her to the very bone, he gathered a band of patriots about'him, and in 
1809 prematurely headed an insurrection against the oppressors. A French anny 
being sent agaiiist him, he took refuge in Straslund. There he was besieged, and 
the result was yet doubtful, when he was killed, and his heroic band, left without a 
leader, soon dispersed. 



202 WOKDSWORTH. 

Curses are Ids dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; 
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course. 
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate 
By violent and ignonainious death. 

1810. 

Ah ! where is Palaf ox ? Nor tongue nor pen 
Eeports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
Does yet th' unheard-of vessel ride the wave ? 
Or is she swallow'd up, remote from ken 
Of pitying human-nature ? Once again 
Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave, 
Redeem'd to baffle that imperial Slave, 
And through all Europe cheer desponding men 
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might 
Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 
Hark, how thy Country triumphs! — Smilingly 
Th' Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams. 
Like His own lightning, over mountains high, 
On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.' 

INDIGKATIOK OF A HIGH-MIJfDED SPAITIARD. 1810. 

We can endure that He should waste our lands, 

Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame 

Eeturn us to the dust from which we came ; 

Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands : 

And we can brook the thought that by his hands 

Spain may be overpower'd, and he possess. 

For his delight, a solemn wilderness 

Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands 

Which he will break for us he dares to speak, 

Of benefits, and of a future day 

When our enlighten'd minds shall bless his sway;* 

Then, the strain'd heart of fortitude proves weak ; 

Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare 

That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear. 

7 Don Joseph Palafox was a Spanish nobleman, and one of the few men in his 
class who were then a credit to it. He held the chief command in Saragossa dnring 
the siege of that place ; at tlie time of the surrender he was sick almost unto death; 
and as soon as he was able to travel he was conducted a close prisoner into France, 
and there lost sight of. Jones, in his Sieges of the Peninsula, says that, " while heroic 
self-devotion, unshaken loyalty, and exalted patriotism are held in estimation among 
mankind, the name of Palafox, blended with that of Saragossa, will be immortal." 

8 While Napoleon was holding Spain by the throat, and harrowing her people 
with all the calamities of a war treacherously begun and madly prosecuted, he still 
tried to conciliate them with promises of freedom and enlightenment, and a good 
time generally. 



NATIOJSTAL INDEPEifDEKCE AND LIBEBTY. 203 

AvAUNT all specious pliancy of mind 

In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! 

I better like a blunt indifference, 

And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 

To win me at first sight : and be there join'd 

Patience and temperance with this high reserve, 

Honour that knows the path and will not swerve; 

Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; 

And piety towards God. Such men of old 

Were England's native growth ; and, throughout Spain, 

(Thanks to high God!) forests of such remain: 

Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 

For match'd with these shall policy prove vain, 

Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 

1810. 

O'erweei^ii^g statesmen have full long relied 

On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 

But from luithin proceeds a Nation's health ; 

Wiiich shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride 

To the paternal floor ; or turn aside. 

In the throug'd city, from the walks of gain, 

As being all unworthy to detain 

A Soul by contemplation sanctified. 

There are who cannot languish in this strife, — 

Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 

Of such high course was felt and understood ; 

"Who to their Country's cause have bound a life 

Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given 

To labour and to prayer, to Nature and to Heaven. 

1811. 

The power of Armies is a visible thing. 
Formal, and circumscribed in time and space : 
But who the limits of that power shall trace 
Which a brave People into light can bring 
Or hide, at will, — for freedom combating 
By just revenge inflamed ? No foot may chase, 
No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind 
Within its aw^f ul caves. — From year to year 
Springs this indigenous produce far and near; 
No craft this subtle element can bind, 
Rising like water from the soil, to find 
In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 



204 WOKDSWORTH. 

1811. 

Heee j)ause : the poet claims at least this praise. 

That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 

Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 

In the worst moment of these evil days; 

From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 

For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. 

]!^ever may from our souls one truth depart, — 

That an accursed thing it is to gaze 

On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 

Nor — touch'd with due abhorrence of their guilt 

For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 

And justice labours in extremity — - 

Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 

wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 

THE FRENCH ARMY IK RUSSIA. 1812-13. 

Humanity, delighting to behold 
A fond reflection of her own decay, 
Hath painted Winter like a traveller old, 
Propp'd on a staff, and, through the sullen day. 
In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, 
As though his weakness were disturb' d by pain: 
Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
An undisputed symbol of command, 
The chosen sceptre is a wither'd bough, 
Infirmly grasp'd within a palsied hand. 
These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn; 
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 

For he it was — dread Winter ! — who beset. 

Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net. 

That host, when from the regions of the Pole 

They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal, — • 

That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied 

Their God, and placed their trust in human pride ! 

As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 

He smote the blossouis of their Avarrior youth ; 

He call'd on Frost's inexorable tooth 

Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold; 

Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 

For wh)^, — unless for liberty enroll'd 

And sacred home, — ah ! why should hoary Age be bold ? 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 



NATIOlfAL IKDEPENDENCB AND LIBERTY. 205 

Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, 

And to the battle ride. 
No pitying voice commands a halt, 
No courage can repel the dire assault : 
Distracted, spiritless, benumb'd, and blind, 
Whole legions sink, and in one instant find 
Burial and death : look for them, — and descry. 
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 



Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! 

And ye mild Seasons, — in a sunny clime, 

Midway on some high hill, while father Time 

Looks on delighted, — meet in festal ring, 

And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! 

Sing ye, with blossoms crown'd, and fruits, and flowers, 

Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers. 

And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 

Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; 

With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain ; 

Whisper it to the billows of the main. 

And to th' aerial zephyrs as they pass. 

That old decrepit Winter — He hath slain 

That nost which render'd all your bounties vain! 



By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 

Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Eussian blood 

Lavish'd in fight with desperate hardihood; 

Th' unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 

To rob our Human-nature of just praise 

For what she did and suffer'd. Pledges sure 

Of a deliverance absolute and pure 

She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways 

Of Providence. But now did the Most High 

Exalt His still small voice ; — to quell that Host, 

Gather'd His power, a manifest ally ; 

He, whose heap'd waves confounded the proud boast 

Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, 

" Finish the strife by deadliest victory 1 " 

OCCASIOi^ED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. FEBRUARY, 1816. 

The Bard whose soul is meek as dawning day. 
Yet train'd to judgments righteously severe. 



206 AVORDSWORTH. 

Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, 

As recognising one Almighty sway; — 

He whose experienced eye can pierce th' array 

Of past events; to whom, in vision clear, 

Th' aspiring heads of future things appear. 

Like mountain-tops whose mists have roll'd away;- 

Assoil'd from all encumbrance of our time, 

He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 

Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 

Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 

The triumph hail, which from their peaceful clime 

Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 



MEMOEIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 

FISH-WOMEif . — OK LAKDIKG AT CALAIS. 1820. 

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 

The likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; 

But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 

Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolFd, 

The Dames resemble whom we here behold, 

How fearful were it down through opening waves 

To sink and meet them in their fretted caves, 

Wither'd, grotesque, immeasurably old, 

And shrill and fierce in accent! — Fear it not: 

For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; 

Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; 

Their voices into liquid music swell, 

Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot. 

The undisturb'd abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell! 

BRUGES. 

The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 

In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 

In picture speaking with heroic tongue, 

And with devout solemnities entwined — 

Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind : 

Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, 

Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng. 

To a harmonious decency confined: 

As if the streets were consecrated ground. 

The city one vast temple, dedicate 

To mutual respect in thought and deed; 

To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 

To social cares from jarring passions freed ; 

A deeper peace than that in deserts found ! 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 



;^07 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES.^ 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled ; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a Convent-tower, 
A harp that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was lit for some gay throng; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
When silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seem'd doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quiver'd and almost seem'd to heave. 

Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting Sun, 

Show'd little of his state ; 
And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly boi-n. 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 

Captive, whoe'er thou be! 
O ! what is beauty, what is love. 

And opening life to thee ? 

Such feeling press'd upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one solt trickling tear that stole 

Fi-om the Maiden at my side : 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty? 



1 This occurred at Bruges in 1828. Mr. 
Coleridge, my daughter, and I made a 
tour together in Flanders, upon the Rhine, 
and returned to Holland. Dora and I, 
while taking a walk along a retired part 
of the town, heard the voice as here de- 
scribed, and were afterwards informed it 
was a Convent in Avhich were many En- 
glish. We were both much touched, I 
might say affected, and Dora moved as 
appears iii these verses. — Author's Notes, 
1843. 



HYMN, 

FOK THE BOATMEX, AS THET APPROACH 

THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE 

OF HEIDELBERG. 

Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
By the current swept along; 

Loud its threatenings, — let them not 
Drown the music of a song 

Breathed Thy mercy to implore. 

Where these troubled waters roar! 

Saviour, for our warning, seen 
Bleeding on that precious Rood; 

If, while through the meadows green 
Gently wound the peaceful flood. 

We forgot Thee, do not Thou 

Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 

Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
Watching o'er the River's bed. 

Fling the shadow of Thy power, 
Else we sleep among the dead ; 

Thou who trodd'st the billowy sea. 

Shield us in our jeopardy! 

Guide our Bark among the waves ; 

Thro' the rocks our passage smooth, 
Where the Avhirlpool frets and raves 

Let Thy love its anger soothe : 
All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
Miserere Doinine ! 



MEMORIAL, 



NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 
THUN. 

Aloys Reding was Captain-General of the 
Swiss forces, which, with a courage and 
perseverance Avortby of the cause, op- 
posed the flagitious and too successful 
attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate 
their countiy. 

Around a wild and woody hill 
A gravell'd pathway treading. 
We reach'd a votive Stone that bears 
The name of Aloys Reding. 

Well judged the friend who placed it there 
For silence and protection ; 
And haply with a finer care 
Of dutiful aflection. 

The Sun regards it from the West; 
And, while in summer glory 
He sets, his sinking jaelds a type 
Of that pathetic story: 



208 



WORDSWORTH. 



And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
Amid the grove to linger; 
Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
Touch'd by his golden linger. 



COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC 
CANTONS. 

Doom'd as we are our native dust 
To wet with many a bitter shower, 
It ill befits us to disdain 
The altar, to deride the fane, 
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
To win a happier hour. 

I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze : 
Hail to the firm unmoving cross, 
Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
And to the chapel far withdrawn, 
That lurks by lonely ways ! 

Wliere'er we roam, — along the brink 
Of Rhine, or by the sweeping Po, 
Thro' Alpine vale, or champain wide, — 
Whate'er we look on, at our side 
Be Charity ! to bid us think. 
And feel, if we would know. 



AFTEK-THOUGHT. 

Oh Lite ! without thy chequer'd scene 
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
Success and failure, could a ground 
For magnanimity be found ; 
For faith, 'mid ruin'd hopes, serene? 
Or whence could virtue flow? 

Pain enter'd through a ghastly breach ; 
Xor while sin lasts must effort cease ; 
Heaven upon Earth's an empty boast; 
But, for the bOAvers of Eden lost, 
Mercy has placed within our reach 
A portion of God's peace. 



OUll LADi' OF THE SNOW. 

Meek Virgin Mother, more begin 
Than fairest Star, upon the height 
Of tliy own mountain, 2 set to keep 
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
What eye can look upon thy shrine 
Untroubled at the sight? 



2 ]\[ount Righi, that is, the Queen 
Mountain. 



These crowded offerings as tliey hang 
In sign of misery relieved 
Even these, without intent of theirs, 
Report of comfortless despairs, 
Of many a deep and cureless pang, 
And confidence deceived. 

To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
As to a common centre, tend 
All sufferers that no more rely 
On mortal succour, — all who sigh 
And pine, of human hope bereft, 
Nor wish for earthly friend. 

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild! 
Though plenteous flowers around thee 
Not only from the dreary strife [blow, 
Of Winter, but the storms of life, 
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled. 
Our Ladt of the Snow. 

Even for the Man who stops not here, 

But down th' irriguous valley liies. 

Thy very name, O Lady ! flings, 

O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, 

A tender sense of shadowy fear, 

And chastening sympathies ! 

Nor falls that intermingling shade 
To summer gladsomeness unkind: 
It chastens only to requite 
With gleams of fresher, purer light; 
While, o'er the flower-enamell'd glade. 
More sweetly breathes the wind. 

But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
A verdant path before us lies; 
Clear shines the glorious Sun above ; 
Then give fi-ee course to joy and love. 
Deeming the evil of the day 
Sufficient for the wise. 



THE CHUECH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN 
FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. 

This Church was almost destroyed by 
lightning a few years ago, but the altar 
and the image of the Patron Saint were 
untouched. The Mount, upon the sum- 
mit of which the Church is built, stands 
amid the intricacies of the I^ake of 
Lugano ; and is, from a hundred points 
of view, its principal oriuiment, I'ising 
to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one 
side, nearly perpendicular. The ascent 
is toilsome; but the traveller who per- 
forms it Avill be amply rewarded. Splen- 
did fertility, ricli woods and dazzling 
waters, seclusion and confinement of 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 



209 



view contrasted with sea-like extent of 
plain fading into the skj- ; and this again, 
in an opposite quarter, with an horizon 
of the loftiest and boldest Alps —unite 
in composing a prospect more diversi- 
fied by magnificence, beauty, and sub- 
limity, than perhaps any other point in 
Europe, of so inconsidei-able an eleva- 
tion, commands. 

Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise 
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, 
Guarded by lone San Salvador ; 
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
But ne'er to human rage ! 

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deign'd 
To rest the universal Lord : 
Why leap the fountains from their cells 
Where everlasting Bounty dwells ? — 
That, while the Creature is sustain'd. 
His God may be adored. 

Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times,— 
Let all remind the soul of Heaven; 
Our slack devotion needs them all; 
And Faith — so oft of sense the tlirall, 
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
May hope to be forgiven. 

Glory, and patriotic Love, 

And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 

Which men call Earth," have yearn'd to 

Associate Avith the simply meek, [seek, 

Religion in the sainted grove, 

And in the haUow'd grot. 

Thither, in time of adverse shocks. 
Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
Did mighty Tell repair of old, — 
A Hero cast in Nature's mould, 
Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
And of the ancient hills I 

J?c, too, of battle-martyrs chief 1 
Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
For victory shaped an open space, 
By gathering with a wide embrace, 
Into his single breast, a sheaf 
Of fatal Austrian spears.s 



3 Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of 
Semijach, broke an Austrian phalanx in 
this manner. The event is one of the most 
famous in the annals of Swiss heroism ; 
and pictures and prints of it are frequent 
throughout the country. 



THE ECLIPSE OP THE SUN, 1820. 

High on her speculative tower 
Stood Science, waiting for the hour 
When Sol was destined to endure 
That darkening of his radiant face 
Which Superstition strove to chase, 
Erewhile, with rites impure. 

Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
Through regions fair as Paradise 
We gaily pass'd, till Nature wrought 
A silent and unlook'd-for change, 
That check'd the desultory range 
Of joy and sprightly thought. 

Where'er was dipp'd the toiling oar, 
The waves danced round us as before, 
As lightly, though of alter'd hue, 
'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
At noontide from umbrageous walls 
That screen the morning dew. 

No vapour stretch'd its wings ; no cloud 
Cast far or near a murky shroud; 
The sky an azure field display'd; 
'Twas sunlight sheath'd and gently 

charm'd. 
Of all its sparkling rays disarm'd, 
And as in slumber laid; — 

Or something night and day between, 
Like moonshine, — but the hue was green ; 
Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
On jutting rock, and curvfed shore, 
AVhere gazed the peasant from his door, 
And on the mountain's head. 

It tinged the Julian steeps, —it lay, 
Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
The solemnizing veil was drawTi 
O'er villas, terraces, and towers; 
To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
Porlezza's verdant lawn. 

But Fancy with the speed of fire 
Hath past to Milan's loftiest spire. 
And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
Of Figures human and divine,* 



4 The Statues ranged roiind the spire 
and along the roof of the Cathedral of 
Milan, have been found fault with by per- 
sons whose exclusive taste is unfortunate 
for themselves. It is true that the same 
expense and labour, judiciously directed 
to purposes more strictly architectural, 
might have much heightened the general 



210 



WORDSWORTH. 



Wliite as the snows of Apennine 
Indurated by frost. 

Awe- stricken she beholds th' array 
That guards the Temple night and day; 
Angels she sees, that might from Heaven 

have flown, 
And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 
Have striven by purity to gain 
The beatific crown ; — 

See long-drawn files, concentric rings 
Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, 
Th' uplifted palms, the silent marble lips. 
The starry zone ^ of sovereign height; — 
All steep'd in this portentous light! 
All suffering dim eclipse ! 

Thus, after Man had fallen, (if aught 
These perishable spheres have Avrought 
May M'ith that issiie be compared,) 
Throngs of celestial visages. 
Darkening like water in the breeze, 
A holy sadness shared. 

Lo ! while I speak, the labouring Sun 
His glad deliverance has begun : 
The cypress waves her sombre plume 
More cheerily ; and town and tower, 
The vineyard and the olive-bower. 
Their lustre re-assume I 

O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
While in far-distant lands we roam. 
What countenance hath this Day put on 

for you? 
While we look'd round with favour'd eyes. 
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
And mountains from your view? 



effect of the building; for, seen from the 
ground, the Statues appear diminutive. 
But the coiip-d'oeil, from the best point of 
view, wJiich is half-way up the spire, 
must strike an unprejudiced person with 
admiration. It was with great pleasui'e 
that I saw, during the two ascents which 
we made, several children, of different 
ages, tripping up and down the blender 
spire, ami pausing to look ai'ound tbem, 
with feelings much move animated than 
could have been derived from these or 
the finest works of art, if placed within 
easy reach.— Ilemember also that you 
have the Alps on one side, and on the 
other the Apennines, with the plain of 
Lombardy between ! 

6 Above the highest circle of figures is 
a zone of metallic stars. 



Or was it given you to behold 
Like vision, pensive though not cold, 
From the smooth breast of gay Winan- 
Saw ye the soft yet awful veil [dermere? 
Spread over Grasraere's lovely dale, 
Helvellyn's brow severe ? 

I ask in vain, — and know far less 
If sickness, sorrow, or distress 
Have spai-ed my dwelling to this hour; 
Sad blindness! but ordain'd to prove 
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
And all-controlling i)ower.« 



THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 

How blest the Maid whose heart, yet free 
From Love's uneasy sovereignty, 
Beats with a fancy running high. 
Her simple cares to magnify ; 
Whom Labour, never urged to toil, 
Hath cherish'd on a healthful soil; 
Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; 
Whose heaviest sin it is to look 
Askance upon her pretty Self 
Reflected in some crystal brook ; [tear 
Whom grief hath spared ; who sheds no 
But in sweet pity ; and can hear 
Another's praise from envy clear. 

Such (but, O lavish Nature ! why 
That dark unfathomable eye, 
Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
To stillest mood of softest skies. 
Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown. 
Another's first, and then her own?)— 
Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
To accomplish there her loveliness; 
Nice aid maternal fingers lend ; 
A Sister serves with slacker hand ; 
Then, glittering like a star, she joins the 
festal band. 

How blest (if truth may entei'tain 
Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 



6 This poem is, I believe, a favourite 
with all lovers of Wordsworth. Profes- 
sor Wilson says of it, in 71ie Recreations 
of Christopher 'North, " we do not hesitate 
to pronounce The Eclipse of the Sun one of 
the finest lyrical effusions of combined 
thought, passion, sentiment, and imagery 
within the whole compass of poetry." 



MEMOKIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 



211 



Th' Helvetian Girl, who daily braves, 
In her light skiff, the tossing waves, 
And quits the bosom of the deep 
Only to climb the rugged steep ! — 
Say whence that modulated shout! 
From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? 
Or does the greeting to a rout 
Of giddy Bacchanals belong? 
Jubilant outcrj- ! rock and glade 
Resounded, — but the voice obey'd 
The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 

Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; 
Her courage animates the flood; 
Her steps th' elastic green-sward meets 
Returning unreluctant sweets; 
The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
Aloud, saluted by her voice! 
Blithe paragon of Alpine grace, 
Be as thou art ; for through thy veins 
The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; 
The fetters which the Matron wears ; 
The patriot Mother's weight of anxious 
cares ! 

" Sweet HIGHLAND Girl! a very shower 
Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 
When thou didst flit before mine eyes, 
Gay Vision under sullen skies. 
While Hope and Love around thee play'd. 
Near the rough falls of Inversneyd! ^ 
Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen 
No breach of promise in the fruit? 
Was joy, in following joy, as keen 
As grief can be in grief's pursuit? 
When youth had flown did hope still bless 
Thy goings, — or the cheerfulness 
Of innocence survive to mitigate distress ? 

But from our course why turn, to tread 
A way with shadows overspread ; 
Where what we gladliest would believe 
Is fear'd as what may most deceive? 
Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crown'd 
But heath-bells from thy native ground, 
Time cannot thin thy flowing hair. 
Nor take one ray of light from Thee ; 
For in my Fancy thou dost share 
The gift of immortality ; 
And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 



7 See the poem To a Highland Girl, 
page IGO. 



The Votaress by Lugano's side ; 
And that intrepid Nymph on Uri's steep 
descried ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

The Youth whose death gave occasion 
to these elegiac verses was Frederick Wil- 
liam Goddard, from Boston in North 
America. He was in his twentieth year, 
and had I'esided for some time with 
a clergyman in the neighbourhood of 
Geneva' for the completion of his educa- 
tion. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a 
native of Scotland, he had just set out on 
a Swiss tour Avhen it was his misfortune 
to fall in with a friend of mine who was 
hastening to join our party. The travel- 
lers, after spending a day together on the 
road from Berne and Soleure, took leave 
of each other at night, the young men 
having intended to proceed directly to 
Zurich. We ascended the Righi together; 
and separated at an hour and on a spot 
well suited to the parting of those who 
were to meet no more. We had hoped to 
meet in a fevr weeks at Geneva ; but on 
the third succeeding daj- (the-21st of Aug- 
ust) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset 
in a boat while crossing the lake of Zu- 
rich. 

LULL'D by the sound of pastoral bells. 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
From the dread summit of the Queen 
Of mountains.s through a deep ravine. 
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
" Our Lady of the Snow." 

The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 
Free were the streams and green the bow- 
As if, to rough assaults unknown, [ers; 
The genial spot had ever shown 
A countenance that as sweetly smiled, — 
The face of summer-hours. 

And we were gay, our hearts at ease ; 
With pleasure dancing through the frame 
We journey'd ; all Ave knew of care, — 
Our path that straggled here and there ; 
Of trouble, — but the fluttering breeze; 
Of Winter, —but a name. 

If foresight could have rent the veil 
Of three short days, — but hush— no more ! 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
Than that to which thy cai-es are gone, 
Thon victim of the stormy gale ; 
Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 



8 The Latin name, Berjina Montium, in 
Italian Mount Righi, signifies Queen of 
mountains. 



212 



WORDSWORTH. 



O GoDDARD I what art thou ? — a name, — 
A sunbeam folio w'd by a shade! 
Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
The great, th' experienced, and the wise : 
Too much from this frail Earth we claim, 
And therefore are betray'd. 

We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
A sea-green i-iver, proud to lave, 
With current swift and undefiled, 
The towers of old Lucerne. 

We parted upon solemn ground 
Far-lifted towards th' unfading sky ; 
But all our thoughts Avere then of Earth, 
That gives to common pleasui-es birth ; 
And nothing in our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 

Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
Herbs moisten'd by Virginian dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew, 
Whose turf may never ko.ow the care 
Of kindred human hands ! 

Belov'd by every gentle Muse 

He left his Transatlantic home : 

Europe, a realised romance, 

Had open'd on his eager glance; 

What present bliss ! what golden views ! 

What stores for years to come ! 

Tho' lodged within no vigoi-ous frame, 
His soul her daily tasks renew'd. 
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
High poised, — or as the Avren that sings 
In shady places, to proclaim 
Her modest gratitude. 



Not vain is sadly-utter'd praise ; 
The words of truth's memorial vow 
Are sweet as morning fragi-ance shed 
From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins » bred ; 
As evening's fondly-lingering rays. 
On RiGHi's silent brow. 

Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
And piety shall guard the Stone 
Which hath not left the spot unknown 
Where the wild waves resign'd their prey > 
And that which marks thy bed.^o 

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; 
This tribute from a casual Fi-iend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother.ii 



9 Goldau is one of the villages deso- 
lated by the fall of part of the mountain 
Rossberg. 

10 The corpse of poor Goddard was 
cast ashore on the estate of a Swiss gen- 
tleman, Mr. Keller, Avho performed all 
the rites of hospitality which could be 
rendered to the dead as well as to the liv- 
ing. He had a handsome mural monu- 
ment erected in the church of Kiisnacht, 
recording the death of the young Ameri- 
can, and also set an inscription on the 
shore of the lake, pointing out the spot 
where the body was deposited by the 
waves. 

11 The persuasion here expressed was 
not groundless. The flrst human conso- 
lation that the afflicted Mother felt Avas 
derived from this tribute to her son's 
memory ; a fact Avhich the author learned, 
at his own residence, from her Daughter, 
who visited Europe some years alter- 
wards. 



ELEGIAC PIECES. 



ADPRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE 
VILLAGE SCHOOL OF 

I coiME, ye little noisy Crew, 
Not long your pastime to prevent; 
I heard the blessing which to you 
Our common Friend and Father sent. 
I kiss'd his cheek before he died; 
And, when his breath was fled, 
I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
His hand : — it dropp'd like lead. 



Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
That can be done, will never fall 
Like his till they are dead. 
By night oi* day blow foul or fair, 
Ne'er Avill the best of all your train 
Play with the locks of his white hair, 
Or stand between his knees again. 

Here did he sit confined for hours; 
But he could see the Avoods and plains, 
Could hear thCAvind and mark the showers 



ELEGIAC PIECES. 



213 



Come streaming down the streaming 
panes. [mound 

Now stretch'd beneath his grass-gi-een 
He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
He loved the breathing air, 
He loved the Sun, but if it rise 
Or set, to him where now he lies, 
Brings not a moment's care. 
Alas! what idle words; but take 
The Dirge Avhich, for our Master's sake 
And yours, love prompted me to make. 
The rhymes so homely in attire 
With learnfed ears may ill agree, 
But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
Will make a touching melody. 



Mourn, Shepherd,near thy old grey stone ; 
Thou Angler, by the silent flood ; 
And mourn when thou art all alone, 
Thou Woodman, in tlie distant wood! 

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum; 
And mourn, thoxi poor half-witted Boy! 
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide 
Who check'd or turn'd thy headstrong 
As he before had sanctified [youth, 

Thy infancy with heavenly tnith. 

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, 
Bold settlers on some foreign shore. 
Give, when your thoughts are turn'd this 
A sigh to him whom we deplore, [way. 

For us who here in funeral strain 
With one accord our voices raise, 
Let sorrow overcharged with pain 
Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 

And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
Fi'om ill we meet or good we miss, 
May touches of his memory bring 
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. [179S. 

BT THE SIDE OF THE GKAVT} SOME 
TEAKS AETER. 

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 
But benefits, his gift, we trace, 
Express'd in every eye we meet 
Round this dear Vale, his native place. 



To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
Flow'd from his life what still they hold, 
Light pleasures, every day, renew'd; 
And blessings half a century old. 

O true of heart, of spirit gay ! 
Thy faults, where not already gone 
From memory, prolong their stay 
For charity's sweet sake alone. 

Such solace find we for our loss; 
And what beyond this thought we crave 
Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
Shining upon thy happy grave.^ 



IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN 
WORDSWORTH, 

Commander of the East India Company''s 
Ship the Earl of Abergavcnnt/, in which he 
perished by calamitous shipwreck, Feb. bth, 
1805. 

The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and, lo! 
That instant, startled by the shock, 
The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
Deliberate and slow : 
Lord of the air, he took his flight; 
O, could he on that woful night 
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
And all who struggled with the Sea, 
When safety was so near ! 

Thus in the weakness of my heart 

I spoke, (but let that pang be still,) 

When rising from the rock at will, 

I saw the Bird depart. 

And let me calmly bless the Power 

That meets me in this unknown Flower, 

Affecting type of him I mourn ! 

With calmness suflfer and believe. 

And grieve, and know that I must grieve. 

Not cheerless, though forlorn. 

Here did we stop ; and here look'd round 
While each into himself descends,^ 
For that last thought of parting Friends 
That is not to be found. 



1 The subject of this piece is the same 
as of The Two April Mornings and The 
Fountain. See pages 146 and 147. 

2 The point is two or three yards be- 
low the outlet of Grisdale tarn on a foot- 
road bj'' which a horse may pass to Pater- 
dale; a ridge of Helvellyn on the left, 
and the summit of Fairfield on the right. 
^Author's Notes. 1843. 



214 



WORDSWORTH. 



Hidden was Grasmcre Vale from sight, 
Our home aud his, his heart's delight, 
His quiet heart's selected home. 
But time before him melts away, 
And he hath feeling of a day 
Of blessedness to come. 

Full soon in soitow did I weep, 

Taught that the mutual hope was dust, — 

In sorrow, but for higher trust, 

How miserably deep ! 

All vanish'd in a single word, 

A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. 

Sea— Ship — drown'd — Shipwreck — so it 

came ; 
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone; 
He Mho had been our living John 
Was nothing but a name. 

That was indeed a parting ! O, 

Glad am I, glad that it is past! 

For there were some on whom it cast 

Unutterable woe. 

But they as well as I have gains ; — 

From many a humble source, to pains 

Like these, there comes a mild release; 

Even here I feel it, even this Plant 3 

Is in its beaiit}^ ministrant 

To comfort and to peace. 

He would have loved thy modest grace, 
Meek Flower ! To Him I would bajve said, 
**It gi'ows upon its natij^ bed "V 
Beside our Parting-place ; 
There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 
With multitude of purple ej-es, 
Spangling a cushion green like moss; 
But we will see it, joyful tide! 
Some daj', to see it in its pride, 
The mountain will Ave cross." 

Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
Have power to make thy virtues known. 
Here let a monumental Stone 
Stand, — sacred as a Shrine; 
And to the few who pass this w^ay. 
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say. 



Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
O, do not Thou too fondly brood, 
Although deserving of all good, 
On any earthly hope, however pure I * 

[1805. 

[Composed at Grasmere, during a walk 
one Evening, after a stormy day, the 
Author having just read in a Newspaper 
that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was 
hourly expected.] 
Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up 
With which she speaks when storms are 
A mighty unison of streams ! [gone, 

Of all her Voices, One ! 

Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
In peace is roaring like the Sea; 
Yon star upon the mountain-top 
Is listening quietly. 

Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
Importunate and heavy load ! 
The Comforter hath found me here, 
Upon this lonely road; 

And many thousands now are sad, — 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
For he must die who is their stay, 
Their glory disappear. 

A Power is passing from the Earth 
To breathless Nature's dark abyss; 
But when the grea^and good depart 
What'is it more than this, — ' 

That Man, who is fi'om God sent forth, 
Do|h yet again to God return ? — 



3 The plant alluded to is the Moss 
Campion. This most beautiful plant is 
scarce in England, though it is found in 
great abundance upon the mountains of 
Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw 
of it, in its native bed, was singularly 
flue, the tuft or cushion being at least 
eight inches in diameter, and the root 
proportionubly thick. 



t The poet repcatedl}' celebrates the 
virtues and t'lie sad death of his brother 
John. In a letter to his friend Sir George 
Beaumont, dated March 12, 1805, he makes 
the following reflections, started by tliat 
event: "Why have we sympathies that 
make the best of lis so afraid of inflict- 
ing pain and sorrow, which yet Ave see 
dealt about so lavishly by the supreme 
Governor? Why should our notions of 
right towards each other, and to all sen- 
tient beings within our influence, differ 
so Avidely from what appears to be His 
notion and rule, \f everjithinfj vjcre to end 
here? Would it not be blasphemy to say 
that, upon the supposition of the think- 
ingprniciple being destroi/ed bi/ death, how- 
ever inferior we may be to the Cause and 
Ruler of things, we' have more of love in 
our nature than He has ? The thought is 
monstrous; and yet how to get rid of it, 
except upon the supposition of another 
and a br.ttrr u-orld, I do not see. As to 
mj' departed brother, Avho letuls our minds 
at'prescnt to these reflections, he Avalked 
all his life pure among many impure." 



ELEGIAC PIECES. 



215 



Such ebb and flow must ever be, 

Then wherefore should we mourn? [1806. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
iAddresseed to Sir G. H. B. upon the death 

of his Sister-in-law.) 
O FOR a dirge ! But why complain ? 
Ask rather a triumphal strain 
When Fermor's race is run; 
A garland of immortal boughs 
To twine aroxmd the Christian's brows, 
Whose glorious work is done. 

We pay a high and holy debt; 

No tears of passionate regret 

Shall stain this votive lay : 

111- worthy , Beaumont ! were the grief 

That flings itself on wild relief 

When Saints have pass'd away. 

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 

For ever covetous to feel, 

And impotent to bear I 

Such once was hers, — to think and think 

On scver'd love, and only sink 

From anguish and despair! 

But nature to its inmost part 
Faith had refined ; and to her heart 
A peaceful cradle giveg : 
Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
Within a ))reeze-fann'd rose's bfeast 
Till it exhales to Heaven. 

Was ever Spirit that could bend 

So graciously? — that could descend. 

Another's need to suit, 

So promptly from her lofty throne? — 

In works of love, in these alone, 

How restless, how minute ! 

Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
When aught had suffer'd wrong, — 
When aught that breathes had felt a 

wound ; 
Such look th' Oppressor might confound, 
However proud and strong. 

But hush'd by every thought that springs 
From out the bitterness of things; 
Eer quiet is secure : 
No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
As climbing jasmine, pure ; 



As snowdrop on an infant's grave, 

Or lily heaving with the wave 

That feeds it and defends ; 

As Vesper, ere the star hath kiss'd 

The mountain-top, or breathed the mist 

That from the vale ascends. 

Thou takest not away, O Death! 

Thou strikest, — absence perisheth, 

Indifference is no more; 

The future brightens on our sight; 

For on the past hath fallen a light 

That tempts us to adore.^ [1824. 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
OF .JAMES HOGG. 

When first, descending from the moor- 
lands , 
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
Along a bare and open valley, 
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.^' 

When last along its banks I wander'd, 
Thro' groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways^ 
My steps the Border-minstrel led.^ 

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; s 
And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : » 



5 This lady [Mrs. Frances Fei-mor] had 
been a AW'dow loijg before I knew her. 
Her husband was of the family of the 
lady celebrated in *The Rape of the Lock. 
The sorrow which his death caused her 
was fearful in its character as described 
in this poem, but was subdued in course 
of time by the strength of her religious 
lYiith. I have been, for many weeks at a 
time, an inmate with her at Coleorton 
Hall, as were also Mrs. Wordsworth and 
my sister. The truth in the sketch of 
her character here given was acknowl- 
edged with gratitude by her nearest rela- 
tives. She was eloquent in conversation, 
energetic upon public matters, open in 
respect to those, but slow to communicate 
her personal feelings ; upon these she 
never touched in her intercourse with 
me, so that I could not regard myself as 
her confidential friend, and was accord- 
ingly surprised when I learnt she had 
left me a legacy of £100 as a token of her 
esteem. — Author's Notes, 1813. 

6 Alluding to the occasion of the poem 
Yarrow Visited. See page 1(J5- 

7 Alluding to the occasion of the poem 
Yarrow Revisited. See page lo7, note 10. 

8 Sir Walter Scott died Sept. 21, 1832. 

9 James Hogg, long and widely-dis- 
tinguished at " the Ettrick Shepherd,'* 
died in November, 1835. 



21G 



WOEDSWORTH. 



Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; i 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanish'd from his lonely hearth.2 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-sum- 
mits, 
Or waves that OAvn no curbing hand, 
IIow fast has brother follow'd brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land I 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
"Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will drop and disappear ?" 

Our haughty life is crown'd with dark- 
ness, 
Like London with its own black Avreath, 



1 Samuel Taylor Coleridge died July 
25, 1834. 

2 Charles Lamb died Dec. 27, 1834. 



On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth- 
looking, 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed. 
Thou too art gone before ; 3 but why, 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gather'd 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
Sweet as the Spring, as ocean deep. 
For Her who, ere her summer faded. 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.* 

No more of old romantic sorrows, 
For slaughter'd Youth or love-lorn Maid! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
dcad.5 [Nov., 1835. 



3 The Rev. George Crabbe died Feb. 
3, 1832. 

4 Alluding to Mrs. Felicia Hemans, 
who died May 16, 1835. 

5 These verses were written extem- 
pore, immediately after reading a notice 
of the Ettiick Shepherd's death, in the 
Newcastle paper, to the Editor of which 
I sent a co])y for publication. The per- 
sons lamented in these verses were all 
either of my friends or acquaintances.— 
Author's Notes, 1843. 



ELEGIAC STAXZAS, 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN" A STORM, 
PAIJsTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 

I WAS thy neiglibonr once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, SO very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there ; 
It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 

How perfect was the calm ! it seem'd no sleep ; 
'No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 

Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand. 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam. 
The light that never was, on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 



] 



ELEGIAC PIECES. 217 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
Amid a world ]iow different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

Thou shouldst haye seem'd a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of Heaven ; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such Picture would I at that time have made : 
And seen the soul of truth in every jDart, 
A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 
I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.® 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 

This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

0, 'tis a passionate Work! — yet wise and well. 
Well chosen is the siDirit that is here ; 
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

I love to see the look with which it braves. 

Cased in th' unfeeling armour of old time. 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

6 Throughout this piece, again, the feeling uppermost in the poet's mind is sorrow 
at the death of his brother. In one of his summer vacations while in coUege, he had 
spent four weeks in the neighbourhood of Peele Castle ; and all that time the waters 
had remained perfectly unruflied and smooth, never ceasing to image in their depths 
the Castle standing near; and now a picture of the place, with the sea heaving under 
a mighty storm, — the same sea which had been so calm and still, that it seemed to him 
"the gentlest of all gentle Thingj?," — only reminds him of his brother's fate, and, 
from the fierce contrast, impresses him Avith a deeper sense of the terrible might 
which had slumbered so sweetly before his eye. 



218 WOEDSWOKTH. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.'' 



WEITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES 
LAMB.» 

To a good Man of most dear memory 
This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
From the great city where he first drew breath. 
Was rear'd and taught ; and humbly earn'd his bread. 
To the strict labours of the merchant's desk 
By duty chain'd. 'Not seldom did those tasks 
Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress. 
His spirit, but the recompense was high, — - 
Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 
And, when the precious hours of leisure came. 
Knowledge and wisdom, gain'd from converse sweet 
With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 

7 This is justly regarded as one of the author's noblest and most characteristic 
pieces. Hardly any of them has been oftener quoted, or drawn forth more or 
stronger notes of admiration. Perhaps the higher function of Poetry has never 
been better expressed than in the last half of the fourth stanza. The author's 
private correspondence at the time shov\'s that the shaping and informing spirit 
of the piece was not a thing assumed for any purpose of art. In a letter to a 
friend, dated March 16,1805, he wrote as follows; "For myself, I feel that there 
is something cut out of my life which cannot be restored. I never thought of him 
but with hope and delight : we looked forward to the time, not distant, as we thought, 
Avhen he would settle near us, when the task of his life would be over, and he would 
have nothing to do but reap his reward, I never wrote a line without a thought of 
its giving him plcasui-e : my WTitings, printed and manuscript, were his delight, 
and one of the chief solaces of his long voj^ages. But I will not be cast down ; were 
it only for his sake, I will not be dejected : and I hope, when I shall be able to think 
of him Avith a calmer mind, that the remembrance of him dead will even animate me 
more than the joy which I had in him living." 

8 Light will be thrown u])on the tragic circumstance alluded to in this poem, 
when, after the death of Charles Lamb's Sister, his biographer, Mr. Sergeant Tal- 
foiTrd, shall be at liberty to relate particulars which could not, at the time his Me- 
moir was written, be given to the pubUc. Maiy Lamb was ten years older than her 
brother, and has survived him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feel- 
ings, I should dwell not only on her genius and intellectual power, but upon the 
delicacy andrefinement of manner which she maintained inviolable iindcr the most 
trying circumstances. She was loved and honoured by all her brother's fi'iends; 
and others, some of them strange characters, whom his 'philanthropic peculiarities 
induced him to countenance. The death of Charles Lamb himself was doubtless 
hastened by his sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he had been attached from 
the time of their being school-fellows at Christ's Hospital. Lamb was a good Latin 
scholar, and probably would have gone to college upon one of the school foundations 
but for the impediment in his speech. — 4 wf/iors Notes, 1843. 



ELEGIAC PIECES. 219 

With a keen eye and overflowing heart : 

So genius triumph'd over seeming wrong, 

And ponr'd out truth in works by thoughtful love 

Inspired, — works potent over smiles and tears. 

And, as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 

Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 

As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, 

Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all 

The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 

From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 

Had been derived the name he bore, — a name. 

Wherever Christian altars have been raised, 

Hallow'd to meekness and to innocence ; 

And if in him meekness at times gave way. 

Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 

Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 

Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 

A soul by resignation sanctified : 

And if too often, self-reproach'd, he felt 

That innocence belongs not to our kind, 

A power that never ceased to abide in him, 

Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 

That she can cover, left not his exposed 

To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 

0, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived 1 

From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 

Those simple lines flow'd with an earnest wish. 

Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 

Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 

Whose virtues call'd them forth. That aim is miss'd; 

For much that truth most urgently required 

Had from a faltering pen been ask'd in vain : 

Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 

Th' imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 

As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 

Of memory, or see the light of love. 

Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 
But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
Its green untrodden turf and blowing flowers ; 
And taking up a voice shall speak (though still 
Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
Of that fraternal love whose Heaven-lit lamp 



220 WORDSWOETH. 

From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour. 
Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined 
"Within thy bosom. 

" Wonderful " hath been 
The loye established between man and man, 
"Passing the love of women; " and between 
Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock join'd 
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
Had been no Paradise ; and Earth were now 
A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear. 
Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 
And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve. 
That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 
And her bright dower of clustering charities, 
That round his trunk and branches might have clung, 
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
Not so enrich'd, not so adorn'd, to thee 
Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
Wert given to her) a Sister, — 'tis a word 
Timidly utter'd, for she lives, the meek. 
The self -restraining, and the ever-kind, — 
In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
Eound — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares. 
All softening, humanising, hallowing powers. 
Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 
More than sufficient recompense I® — Her love 
(What w^eakness prompts the voice to tell it here ?) 
Was as the love of mothers; and when years, 
Lifting the boy to man's estate, had call'd 
The long-protected to assume the part 
Of a protector, the first filial tie 
Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 
Remain'd imperishably interwoven 
With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 
Did they together testify of time 
And season's difference, — a double tree 
With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; — 
Such were they ; such thro' life they might have been 
In union, in partition only such ; 
Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 
Yet, through all visitations and all trials, 

9 Wordsworth here delicately hints that Lamb refrained from matrimonial ties 
on account of his sister, whose sad infirmity seemed to him to invest her claims 
with peculiar sacredness. And such, I believe, was the fact. 



J 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 221 

Still they were faithful;^ like two vessels launch'd 
From the same beach one ocean to explore 
With mutual help, and sailing, — to their league 
True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
Floating or fix'd of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarm'd of power to unsettle present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward held 
In such an even balance, that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, His mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is still. 

gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
And feeding daily on the hope of Heaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
To life-long singleness ; but happier far 
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 
A thousand times more beautiful appear'd. 
Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
To the blest world where parting is unknown. [1835. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.^ 



GLAD TIDIKGS. 

For ever hallow'd be this morning fair. 

Blest be th' unconscious shore on which ye tread, 

1 Since the publication of Talfourd's Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, in 1848, the 
matter here referi-ed to has become well known. Mary Lamb was subject to dread- 
ful turns of insanity, during which she had to be separated from her brother, and 
kept in close confinement. In a letter to Coleridge, dated September 27, 1796, Lamb 
has the following: " My poor dear, dearest sister, in a lit of insanity, has been the 
death of her own mothei*. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out 
of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be 
moved to an hospital." 

2 Of this series of Sonnets, much the greater number are not particularly suited 
to the purpose of this volume. But some of them, besides being exceedingly beau- 
tiful in themselves, are fully in keeping with that purpose, and are withal so mellow 
with Christian gentleness and wisdom, that I could not make up my mind to leave 
them out. 



222 WOEDSWORTH. 

And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead 

Of martial banner, in procession bear ; 

The Cross preceding Him who floats in air. 

The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led. 

They come, and onward travel without dread. 

Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, — 

Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free! 

Eich conquest waits them : — the tempestuous sea 

Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high, 

And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, 

These good men humble by a few bare words, 

And calm with fear of God's divinity. 

PAULINUS. 

But, to remote N'orthumbria's royal Hall, 

"Where thoughtful Edwin, tutor'd in the school 

Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule, 

WJio comes with functions apostolical ? 

Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall, 

Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 

His prominent feature like an eagle's beak ; 

A Man whose aspect doth at once appal 

And strike with reverence.* The Monarch leans 

Toward the pure triiths this Delegate propounds ; 

Eepeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 

With careful hesitation ; then convenes 

A synod of his Councillors: — give ear. 

And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 

PERSUASIOlf. 

" Mak's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King ! 
That — while at banquet with your Chiefs you sit 
Housed near a blazing fire — is seen to flit 
Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
Here did it enter ; there, on hasty wing, 
Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; 
But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
Whither it goes. Even such, that transient Thing, 
The human Soul ; not utterly unknown 
While in the Body lodged, her warm abode ; 
But from what world She came, what woe or weal 
On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown : 

3 The person of Paulinus is thus described by Bede, from the memory of an eye- 
witness : " Liongre staturae, pauli^um incurvus, nigro capillo, facie macilenta, naso 
adunco, pertenui, venerabilis simul et terribilis aspectu." 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 223 

This mystery if the Stranger can reveal. 
His be a welcome cordially bestow'd ! " * 

CONVERSION. 

Prompt transformation works the novel Lore : 

The Council closed, the Priest in full career 

Eides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 

To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 

He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 

Is overturn'd; the mace, in battle heaved 

(So might they dream) till victory was achieved. 

Drops, and the God himself is seen no more. 

Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 

Amid oblivious weeds. — 0, come to me, 

Ye heavy laden I such th' inviting voice 

Heard near fresh streams ;^ and thousands, who rejoice 

In the new Rite, — the pledge of sanctity, — 

Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 

PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.'' 

How beautiful your presence, how benign. 

Servants of God ! who not a thought will share 

With the vain world ; who, outwardly as bare 

As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 

That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine ! 

Such Priest, when service worthy of his care 

Has call'd him forth to breathe the common air. 

Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine 

Descended : — happy are the eyes that meet 

The Apparition ; evil thoughts are stay'd 

At his approach, and low-bow'd necks entreat 

A benediction from his voice or hand ; 

Whence grace, through which the heart can understand. 

And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 

SECLUSION. 

Lance, shield, and sword relinquish'd, at his side 
A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 

4 The original of this speech is given by Bede; and the Conversion of Edwin as 
related by him is highly interesting. 

5 The early propagators of Christianity were accustomed to preach near rivers, 
for the convenience of baptism. 

6 Having spoken of the zeal, disinterestedness, and temperance of the clergy of 
those times, Bede thus proceeds : " Unde et in magna erat veneratione tempore iilo 
religionis habitus, ita ut ubicunque clericus aliquis, aut mouachus adveniret, 
gaudenter ab omnibus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in itinere 
pergens inveniretur, accurrebant, et llexa cervice, vel manu signari, vel ore illius 
se benedici, gaudebant. Verbis quoque horum exhortatoriis diligenter auditum 
prsebebant." 



224 WORDSWOKTH, 

Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, 

The war-worn Chieftain quits the world, to hide 

His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 

In cloister'd priyacy. But not to dwell 

In soft repose he comes. Within his cell, 

Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 

At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, 

Do penitential cogitations cling ; 

Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 

In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 

Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring. 

For recompense, — their own perennial bower. 

EEPEOOF. 

But what if One, through grove or flowery mead. 

Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 

Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 

Thy hovering Shade, venerable Bede ! 

The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 

Of toil stupendous, in a hallow'd seat 

Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows beat 

On a wild coast, — rough monitors, to feed 

Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 

The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt 

Imposed on human kind, must first forget 

Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 

Of a long life ; and, in the hour of death. 

The last dear service of thy passing breath ! ' 

MISSIOifS AKD TEAYELS. 

Not sedentary all : there are who roam 

To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores ; 

Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors 

To seek the general mart of Christendom; 

Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, come 

To their beloved cells : — or shall we say 

That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge their way, 

To lead in memorable triumph home 

Truth, their immortal Una ? Babylon, 

Learned and wise, hath perish'd utterly, 

Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the sigh 

That would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre, are gone 

With all their Arts, — but classic lore glides on 

By these Religious saved for all posterity. 

7 He expired dictating the last words of a translation of St. John's Gospel. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 225 



ALFRED. 



Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 

The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear! 

Lord of the harp and liberating spear; 

Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown 

Might range the starry ether for a crown 

Equal to Ms deserts, who, like the year. 

Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, 

And awes like night with mercy-temper'd frown. 

Ease from this noble miser of his time 

No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.® 

Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem. 

Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 

And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, 

In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 

HIS DESCENDANTS. 

When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 

Darling of England ! many a bitter shower 

Eell on thy tomb ; but emulative power 

Elow'd in thy line through undegenerate veins. 

The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 

When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 

Black tempest bursting, blacker still in view ! 

But manly sovereignty its hold retains; 

The root sincere, the branches bold to strive 

With the fierce tempest, while, within the round 

Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 

As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground. 

Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom. 

The foster'd hyacinths spread their purple bloom. 

CANUTE. 

A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 

From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 

While-as Canute the King is rowing by : 

" My Oarsmen,^' quoth the mighty King, " draw near, 

That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear ! " 

He listens, (all past conquests and all schemes 

Of future vanishing like empty dreams,) 

Heart-touch'd, and haply not without a tear. 

The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still. 

While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, 

Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme. 

8 Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to grievous maladies. 



226 WORDSWORTH. 

suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime 
And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 

CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 

" Here Man more purely liveSy less oft doth fall, 
More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed, 
More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal 
A hrighter crotun.'^^ — On yon Oistertian wall 
That confident assurance may be read ; 
And, to like shelter, from the world have fled 
Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires; 
Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
A gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; 
Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires, 
And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 

MONKS AKD SCHOOLMEN". 

Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 
That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
Who in their private cells have yet a care 
Of public quiet ; unambitious Men, 
Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken ; 
Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
Move Princes to their duty, peace or war ; 
And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
Of solitude, with love of science strong. 
How patiently the yoke of thought they bear ! 
How subtly glide its finest threads along! 
Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 



Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs 
Shouting to Freedom, " Plant thy banners here ! " 
To harass'd Piety, " Dismiss thy fear. 
And in our caverns smooth thy ruffled wings ! " 
Nor be unthank'd their final lingerings — 
Silent, but not to high-soui'd Passion's ear — 

9 '• Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo vivit purius, cadit rarius, surffit velocius, 
incedit cautius, quiescit securius, moritur felicius, purgatur citius.prffitniatxir copio- 
sius." Bermu-d. "This sentence," says Dr. Whitaker, "is usually inscribed in 
some conspicuous part of the Cistertian houses." 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 227 

'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes drear, 
Their own creation. Such glad welcomings 
As Po was heard to give where Venice rose, 
Hail'd from aloft those Heirs of trntli divine 
Who near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
Yet came prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
Should that be needed for their sacred Charge ; 
Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits were at large ! 

DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 

Threats come which no submission may assuage, 

No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 

The tapers shall be quench'd, the belfries mute. 

And, 'mid their choirs unroof'd by selfish rage 

The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; 

The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit ; 

And the green lizard and the gilded newt 

Lead unmolested lives, and die of age. 

The owl of evening and the woodland fox 

For their abode the shrines of Waltham choose : 

Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 

To stoop her head before these desperate shocks, — 

She whose high pomp displaced, as story tells, 

Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 

THE SAME subject. 

The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 

Through saintly habit than from effort due. 

To unrelenting mandates that pursue 

"With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) 

Goes forth, — unveiling timidly a cheek 

Suffused with blushes of celestial hue. 

While through the Convent's gate to open view 

Softly she glides, another home to seek. 

Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 

An Apparition more divinely bright ! 

Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 

Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 

Pour'd forth, while summer suns at distance shine, 

And the green vales lie hush'd in sober light ! 

THE VIRGIN. 

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
Woman ! above all women glorified, 



228 WORDSWORTH. 

Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
With fancied roses, than th' unblemish'd Moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ; 
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
Not unf orgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mix'd and reconciled in Thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! 

APOLOGY. 

Not utterly unworthy to endure 

Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; 

Age after age to th' arch of Christendom 

Aerial keystone haughtily secure ; 

Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure. 

As many hold ; and therefore to the tomb 

Pass, some through fire, and by the scaffold some, — 

Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 

" Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 

Upon his throne ; " unsof ten'd, undismay'd 

By aught that mingled with the tragic scene 

Of pity or fear ; and More's gay genius play'd 

With th' inoffensive sword of native wit. 

Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. 

IMAGIi^ATIVE REGRETS. 

Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
From Sages justly honour'd by mankind; 
But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, 
Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan 
Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, blind 
As his own worshippers : and Nile, reclined 
Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 
Eenews. Through every forest, cave, and den. 
Where frauds were hatch'd of old, hath sorrow past, 
Hangs o'er th' Arabian Prophet's native Waste, 
Where once his airy helpers schemed and plann'd 
'Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty men. 
And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 

TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 

But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 229 

Assumes tlie accents of our native tongue ; 

And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook, 

With understanding spirit now may look 

Upon her records, listen to her song, 

And sift her laws, — much wondering that the wrong. 

Which Faith has suiler'd. Heaven could calmly brook. 

Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly King 

Ever bestow'd, to equalize and bless 

Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 

But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild 

With bigotry shall tread the Offering 

Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 

EDWARD VI. 

" Sweet is the holiness of Youth," — so felt 

Time-honour'd Chaucer speaking through that Lay 

By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 

And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 

Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 

In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 

King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 

Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 

In meek and simple infancy, what joy 

For universal Christendom had thrill' d 

Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skill'd 

(0 great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 

The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 

Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 

EDWAED SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR THE EXECUTION OP 
JOAN OP KENT. 

The tears of man in various measure gush 

From various sources : gently overflow 

From blissful transport some ; from clefts of woe 

Some with ungovernable impulse rush; 

And some, coeval with the earliest blush 

Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 

Their pearly lustre, — coming but to go ; 

And some break forth when others' sorrows crush 

The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor yet 

The noblest drops to admiration known, 

To gratitude, to injuries forgiven, 

Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have wet 

The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs driven 

To pen the mandates nature doth disown. 



230 WOKDSWORTH. 

LATIMER AKD RIDLEY. 

How fast the Marian deaMi-list is unroll'd! 

See Latimer and Eidley in the might 

Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight ! 

One, (like those prophets whom God sent of old,) 

Transfigured, from this kindling hath foretold 

A torch of inextinguishable light ; ^® 

The Other gains a coufidence as bold; 

And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 

The penal instruments, the shows of crime, 

Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 

Of saintly Friends the " murtherer's chain partake, 

Corded, and burning at the social stake : " 

Earth never witness'd object more sublime 

In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 

EMIi^ENT REFORMERS. 

Methikks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 
Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave. 
Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
The gift exalting, and with pla}rful smile ; ^^ 
For, thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? — 
More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, 

10 M. Latimer suffered his keeper very quietly to pull off his hose, and his other 
array, which to looke into %yas very simple : and being stripped into his shi'owd, he 
seemed as comely a person to them that were present, as one should lightly see : 
and whereas in his clothes hee appeared a Avithered and crooked sillie (weak) olde 
man, he now stood bolt upright, as comely a father as one might lightly behold. 
.... Then they brought a faggotte, kindled with fire, and laid the same downe 
at Dr. Ridley's feete. To whome M. Latimer spake in this manner, "Bee of good 
comfort, master Ridley, and play the man : Avee shall this day light such a candle by 
God's gi'ace in England, as I trust shall never be put out." — Fox^s Acts, d-c. 

11 On foot they went, and took Salisbury in their waj^, purposely to see the good 
Bishop, who made Mr. Hooker sit at his own table ; AVhich Mr. Hooker boasted of 
with much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and friends; and at the 
Bishop's parting with him, the Bishop give him good counsel and his benediction, 
but forgot to give him money; which when the Bishop had considered, he sent a 
servant in all haste to call Richard back to him, and at Richard's return, the Bishop 
said to him, " Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse which hath carried 
me many a mile, and I thank God with much ease," and presently delivered into his 
hand a walking-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many parts 
of Germany; and he said, " Richard, I do not give, but lend you my horse; be sure 
you be honest, and bring my horse back to me, at your return this" way to Oxford. 
And I do now give j-ou ten groats to bear your charges to Exeter; ami here is ten 
groats more, which I charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell her I send her 
a Bishop's benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And 
if you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to carry you on 
foot to the college; and so God bless you, good Richard." — Walton's Life of Richard 
Hooker. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SOKNETS. 231 

The freight of holy feeling which we meet, 

In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales [rest. 

From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they 



Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are. 

Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 

With what entire affection do they prize 

Their Church reform'd ! labouring with earnest care 

To baffle all that may her strength impair ; 

That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat; 

In their afflictions a divine retreat; 

Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer ! 

The truth exploring with an equal mind, 

In doctrine and communion they have sought 

Firmly between the two extremes to steer : 

But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot. 

To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, 

And prophesy to ears that will not hear. 

DISTRACTIONS. 

Men", who have ceased to reverence, soon defy 
Their forefathers : lo ! sects are form'd, and split 
With morbid restlessness ; — th' ecstatic fit 
Spreads wide ; though special mysteries multiply. 
The Saints must govern, is their common cry : 
And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ 
Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit 
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws 
From the confusion, craftily incites 
The overweening, personates the mad, — 
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause : 
Totters the Throne ; the new-born Church is sad, 
For every wave against her peace unites. 

THE JUKG-FRAU AKD THE FALL OF THE RHINE NEAR 
SCHAEFHAUSEN. 

The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen 
A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, 
Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below 
Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
Can link with desolation. Smooth and green. 
And seeming, at a little distance, slow, 
The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go 
Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen ; 



232 WOKDSWORTH. 

Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
Turn'd to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe 
Blasts of tempestuous smoke, — wherewith he tries 
To hide himself, but only magnifies ; 
And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, 
Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 



EvEK such the contrast that, where'er we move, 

To the mind's eye Keligion doth present ; 

Now with her own deep quietness content ; 

Then, like the mountain, thundering from above 

Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 

And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood 

Eecalls the transformation of the flood, 

Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, 

Earth cannot check. terrible excess 

Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety ? 

•No ! some fierce Maniac hath usurp'd her name ; 

And scourges England struggling to be free : 

Her peace destroy'd! her hopes a wilderness! 

Her blessings cursed, her glory turn'd to shame ! 

AFFLICTIONS OF EKGLAKD. 

Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string. 

The faintest note to echo which the blast 

Caught from the hand of Moses as it pass'd 

O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king, 

Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 

Of dread Jehovah ; then should wood and waste 

Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 

Off to the mountains, like a covering 

Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, ! weep, 

Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest 

Despised by that stern God to whom they raise 

Their suppliant hands : but holy is the feast 

He keepeth ; like the firmament His ways ; 

His statutes like the chambers of the deep. 

waltok's book of lives. 

There are no colours in the fairest sky 

So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen 

Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 

Dropp'd from. an Angel's wing. With moisten'd eye 

W^e read of faith and purest charity 

In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONJ^ETS. 233 

0, could we copy their mild virtues, then 
What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
Methiuks their very names shine still and bright; 
Apart — like glow-worms on a summer night ; 
Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on high, 
Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 

PERSECUTIOi^ OF THE SCOTTISH COVE:N"AlvrTERS. 

Whek Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 

The majesty of England interposed 

And the sword stopp'd ; the bleeding wounds were closed ; 

And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 

How little boots that precedent of good, 

Scorn'd or forgotten, Thou canst testify. 

For England's shame, Sister Eealm ! from wood, 

Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie 

The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 

Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 

From councils senseless as intolerant 

Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law ; 

But who would force the Soul, tilts with a straw 

Against a Champion cased in adamant. 

PLACES or WORSHIP. 

As star that shines dependent upon star 

Is to the sky while we look up in love ; 

As to the deep fair ships which though they move 

Seem fix'd, to eyes that watch them from afar; 

As to the sandy desert fountains are, 

With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals, 

Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls 

Of roA'ing tired or desultory war, — 

Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 

Each link'd to each for kindred services ; 

Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes 

Far-kenn'd, her Chapels lurking among trees, 

Where a few villagers on bended knees 

Find solace which a busy world disdains. 

PASTORAL CHARACTER. 

A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, 

And a refined rusticity, belong 

To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, 



234 WORDSWOETH. 

The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful Lord. 
Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword ; 
Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong 
To human kind; though peace be on his tongue, 
Gentleness in his heart, — can Earth afford 
Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
As when, array'd in Christ's authority. 
He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand ; 
Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 
For re-subjecting to divine command 
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ? 

SPONSORS. 

Father ! to God himself we cannot give 
A holier name! then lightly do not bear 
Both names conjoin'd, but of thy spiritual care 
Be duly mindful : still more sensitive 
Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
Watch'd, and with love and pious industry 
Tended at need, th' adopted Plant may thrive 
For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
This Ordinance, whether loss it would supply, 
Prevent omission, help deficiency. 
Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
An idle form, the Word an empty sound ! 

CATECHISIN^G. 

From Little down to Least, in due degree, 
Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
We stood, a trembling, earnest Company! 
With low soft murmur, like a distant bee. 
Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed; 
And some a bold unerring answer made : 
How flutter'd then thy anxious heart for me, 
Beloved Mother ! thou whose happy hand 
Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie ; 
Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear: 
0, lost too early for the frequent tear. 
And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 235 



CONFIEMATION. 



I SAW a mother's eye intensely bent 

Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt ; 

In and for whom the pious Mother felt 

Things that we Judge of by a light too faint : 

Tell, if ye may, some star-crown'd Muse, or Saint ! 

Tell what rush'd in, from what she was relieved, — 

Then, when her Child the hallowing touch received. 

And such vibration through the Mother went 

That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear ? 

Open'd a vision of that blissful place 

Where dwells a Sister-child ? And was power given 

Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 

Even to this Rite ? For thus She knelt, and, ere 

The summer-leaf had faded, pass'd to Heaven. 



EEGEETS. 

Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave 
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
And usages, whose due return invites 
A stir of mind too natural to deceive ; 
Giving to Memory help when she would weave 
A crown for Hope ! — I dread the boasted lights 
That all too often are but fiery blights. 
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring, 
The counter Spirit found in same gay church 
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch 
In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, 
Merry and loud and safe from prying search. 
Strains offer'd only to the genial Spring. 

MUTABILITY. 

Teom low to high doth dissolution climb, 

And sink from high to low, along a scale 

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 

A musical but melancholy chime. 

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime. 

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 

Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 

The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 

That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain 

And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 

Of yesterday, which royally did wear 



236 WOEDSWORTH. 

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 
Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 
Or th' unimaginable touch of Time. 

OLD ABBEYS 

MoN"ASTic Domes ! following my downward way, 

TJntouch'd by due regret I mark'd your fall ! 

Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 

Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay 

On our past selves in life's declining day : 

For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 

We learn to tolerate th' infirmities 

And faults of others, — gently as he may, 

So with our own the mild Instructor deals. 

Teaching us to forget them or forgive. 

Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill, 

"Why should we break Time's charitable seals ? 

Once ye were holy, ye are holy still; 

Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 

CATHEDRALS, ETC. 

Opek your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 

Types of the spiritual- Church which God hath rear'd : 

Not loth we quit the ncAvly-hallow'd sward 

And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles 

To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles. 

Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; 

Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow 

And mount, at every step, with living wiles 

Instinct, — to rouse the heart and lead the will 

By a bright ladder to the world above. 

Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 

Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 

Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer 

Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 

IKSIDE OF Kli^G'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd — 

Albeit labouring for a scanty band 

Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 

And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 

Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more : 



ECCLESIASTICAL SOKKETS. 237 

So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells, 
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
Lingering, — and wandering on as loth to die; 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
That they were born for immortality. 

THE SAME. 

What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen. 
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen. 
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Mght ! — 
But, from the arms of silence — list ! list ! — 
The music bursteth into second life ; 
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kiss'd 
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 

CONTINUED. 

They dreamt not of a perishable home 
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
Melts if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
Of awe-struck wisdom droo23S : or let my path 
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome 
Hath typified by reach of daring art 
Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 
As now, when she hath also seen her breast 
Fill'd with mementos, satiate with its part 
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 



238 WOKDSWORTH. 

ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 



AEGUMEJ^T. 

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with 
sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. — Sources and effects of 
those sounds. — The power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. — 
Origin of music, and its eflect in early ages. — The mind recalled to sounds acting 
casually and sevei*ally. — Wish uttered that these could be united into a scheme or 
system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. — The Pythagorean 
theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the 
universe — imaginations consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed, re- 
alised in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the foi'm of 
thanksgiving to the Creator. — The destruction of earth and the planetary system 
— the survival of audible harmony, and its support in. the Divine Nature, as re- 
vealed in Holy Writ. 

Thy functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 

Organ of vision! And a Spirit aerial 

Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind; 

Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 

To enter than oracular cave ; 

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought. 

And whispers for the heart, their slave ; 

And shrieks, that revel in abuse 

Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air, 

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 

Into the ambush of despair ; 

Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle. 

And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats 

Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! ^ 

The headlong streams and fountains 

Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 

How fearful to the desert wide ! 

That bleat, how tender! of the dam 

Calling a straggler to lier side. 

Shout, cuckoo! — let the vernal soul 

Go with thee to the frozen zone; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll I 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

1 I am not quite clear as to the meaning of tliis. " The pulse that beats devoutly, in 
life's last retreats," may mean tlie innermost feelings of the heart, — feelings seated 
there where life is supposed to hold out longest; or it may mean the devout feelings 
of a "good and faithful servant" in his dying moments. If the latter, then "re- 
quiems (umwer'd b>/ the pulse, &c., must be taken in the sense of '* requiems speaking 
in accordance with the pulse," &c. 



0]!^ THE POWEE OF SOUND. 239 

Mercy from her twilight throne 
Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 
To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea. 
Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 

Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 

And Images of Yoice, — to hound and horn 

From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 

Flung back, and in the sky's blue caves reborn, — 

On with your pastime ! till the church-tower bells 

A greeting give of measured glee ; 

And milder echoes from their cells 

Eepeat the bridal symphony. 

Then, or far earlier, let us rove 

Where mists are breaking up or gone, 

And from aloft look down into a cove 

Besprinkled with a careless quire, 

Happy milk-maids, one by one 

Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 

A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 

A stream as if from one full heart. 

Blest be the song that brightens 

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 

Unscom'd the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 

His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 

For the tired slave. Song lifts the languid oar, 

And bids it aptly fall, with chime 

That beautifies the fairest shore, 

And mitigates the harshest clime. 

Yon pilgrims see, — in lagging file 

They move ; but soon th' appointed way 

A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 

And to their hope the distant shrine 

Glisten with a livelier ray : 

Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine. 

Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 

Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 

When civic renovation 
Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
Best eloquence avails not. Inspiration 
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
Piping through cave and battlemented tower : 
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
That voice of Freedom, in its power 
Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 



240 WORDSWORTH. 

Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 

Incitements of a battle-day, 

Thrilling th* unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads? — 

Even She ^ whose Lydian airs inspire 

Peaceful striving, gentle play 

Of timid hope and innocent desire 

Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 

Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love. 

How oft along thy mazes. 

Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 

Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises, 

And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God^ 

Betray not by the cozenage of sense 

Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd 

To a voluptuous influence 

That taints the purer, better mind ; 

But lead sick Fancy to a harp 

That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 

And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp. 

Soothe it into patience, — stay 

Th' uplifted arm of Suicide ; 

And let some mood of thine in firm array 

Knit every thought th' impending issue needs, 

Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds! 

As Conscience, to the centre 

Of being, smites with irresistible pain. 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurl'd, — 

Convulsed as by a jarring din; 

And then aghast, as at the world 

Of reason partially let in 

By concords winding with a sway 

Terrible for sense and soul ; 

Or, awed, he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 

Point not these mysteries to an Art 

Lodged above the starry pole ; 

Pure modulations flowing from the heart 

Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth 

With Order dwell, in endless yonth ? 

2 The allusion is to Sappho, the famous Greek poetess, whom Wordsworth else- 
where speaks of as " The Lesbian Maid." Her airs are called Lydian with reference 
to the ancient Greek modes or keys, Avhich were derived from Lydia, and in which 
the music was of a pathetic and melting character. See page 154, note 4. 



OJ^^ THE POWER OF SOUKD. 241 

Oblivion may not cover 

All treasures lioarded by the miser, Time. 

Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 

To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climb. 

When Music deign'd within this grosser sphere 

Her subtle essence to enfold, 

And voice and shell drew forth a tear 

Softer than Nature's self could mould. 

Yet strenuous was the infant Age : ^ 

Art, daring because souls could feel, 

Stirr'd nowhere but an urgent equipage 

Of rapt imagination sped her march 

Through the realms of woe and weal : 

Hell to the l}Te bow'd low ; the upper arch 

Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 

Her wan disasters could disperse.* 

The GriFT to king Amphion 

That wall'd a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream : ^ — thy skill, Aricn ! 

Could humanise the creatures of* the sea, 

Where men were monsters. ® A last grace he craves. 

Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 

Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 

And listening dolphins gather round. 

Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 

'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 

A proud One docile as a managed horse; 

b The ancient myths of Orphens, Amphion, and Arion are here justly regarded as 
sho\ving that the old Greek sensibility to music was much more lively and responsive 
than that of any modern people. Classical poetry and fable were fond of such 
daring' and hyperbolical representations of the power of music, because they felt 
sure of an answering sj-mpathy in the popular feeling; whereas, to our duller sensi- 
bilities, those representations tippear so extravagant as to be quite ludicrous. And 
so Hume, in his essay Of Eloquence, remarks of ancient orators, that " their eloquence 
was infinitely more sublime than that which modern orators aspii-e to;" though he 
attributes thjs to liigher powers of expression and delivery in tiie ancient speakers : 
and he illustrates by quoting passages from Demosthenes and Cicero Avhich would 
be scouted by a modern audience as " Avholly monstrous and gigantic." 

4 "The upper arch" is the heavens or the sky, Avhose direfuUest portents and 
prodigies were thouglit to be quelled by lyrical and musical incantations. 

5 The fable of Orpheus is, I presume, too well known to need any statement of 
its contents here. It was in his handling that " Hell to the lyre bow'd' low," yielding 
up his beloved Eurydice to the divine compulsion of his music. — Amphion was 
King of the Grecian Thebes: his harp and voice so aflected the stones that they 
could not choose but march to their places, and so girdled the city with a wall. 

6 Arion was a famous Greek bard and player on the harp. The story is, that he 
went to Sicily to take part in a musical contest; and, having won the prize, was 
going home to Corinth by sea, laden with presents, when the rude sailors coveted 
his wealth and were bent on murdering him. After trying in Aain to bi-eak their 
purpose, he at last got leave to play once more on the harp : so, putting on festal at- 
tire, and standing in the prow of the ship, he invoked the gods in inspired strains, 
and then threw himself into the sea. But a flock of song-loving dolphins had gath- 
ered round; and now one of them took the bai'd on its back, and carried him to 
Tienarus, from whence he returned safe to Corinth. 



242 WOBDSWOETH. 

And singing, while th' accordant hand 
Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 
So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright 
In memory, through silent night. 

The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 

Couch'd in the shadow of Maenalian pines,^ 

Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards. 

That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines. 

How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 

While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 

In cadence,® — and Silenus swang 

This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd. — 

To life, to life give back thine ear : 

Ye who are longing to be rid 

Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 

The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 

Echoed from the coffin-lid ; 

The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 

" The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, 

Eepeated, — heard, and heard no more ! 

For terror, joy, or pity, 

Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 

From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city. 

Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 

Far as the woodlands, — with the trill to blend 

Of that shy songstress whose love-tale 

Might tempt an angel to descend. 

While hovering o'er the moonlit vale. 

Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme, 

No scale of moral music, to unite 

Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 

Of memory ? — 0, that ye might stoop to bear 

7 Mccnalian is the same as Arcadian; Mcenalus being the name of the mountains 
in Arcadia, wluch were celebratecl as the favouiite haunts of the god Pan. 
Arcadia is the old name of the central poi-tion of Peloponnesus. The Arcadians 
were noted as a simple pastoral people, passionately fond of music, and devoted to 
the worship of Pan. 

8 Fauns and Satyrs appear to have been much the same, only the former were 
Roman, the latter Grecian. They were among the minor divinities of the ancient 
mythology: in form, half man and half goat, with horns; vastly given to music 
and wine, and to sensual pleasures of all sorts. Silenus was their chief, and a very 
funny god withal. He was generally intoxicated, and is described as a jovial old 
man, with a bald head, a puck nose, fat and round like his Avine-bag, which he 
always carried with him. He was specially given to dancing, and so was called 
the dartccr : in oth«r respects, his addiction was about equally divided between mne, 
sleep, and music. But his main peculiarity lay in his being an inspired prophet, 
who knew all tlie past and the remotest future, and also a sage who despised all 
the gilts of fortune. When drunk or asleep, he was in the power of mortals, who 
could compel him to prophesy and sing by tying him up with chains of flowers. 



Olsr THE POWER OF SOUKD. 243 

Chains, such precious chains of sight 
As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear! 
0, for a balance fit the truth to tell 
Of th' Unsubstantial, ponder'd well ! 

By one pervading spirit 

Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 

As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 

Initiation in that mystery old.* 

The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 

As they themselves appear to be. 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towering headlands, crown'd with mist. 

Their feet among the billows, know 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal Air, 

Ever waving to and fro. 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the Seasons in their round ; 

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

Break forth into thanksgiving. 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 

Nor hush'd be service from the lowing mead, 

Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 

Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attune 

Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim, 

Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting through one valley calls. 

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 

For praise and ceaseless gratulation, pour'd 

Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 

9 Alluding to what is called " the music of the spheres,"— an ancient mystery 
whicli taught that the heavenly bodies in their revolutions sing together in a concert 
so loud, various, and sweet, as to exceed all proportion to the human ear. The 
same thing is apparentlj'- referred to in Job, xxxviii. 7 : -'The morning stars sang 
together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." And the greatest souls in every 
age seem to have been raised above themselves by the idea that the universe was 
knit together by a principle of which musical harmony is the aptest and clearest 
expression. So the well-known passage in The Merchant of Venice, v. 1 : 

" There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins." 



244 WORDSWOKTH. 

A Voice to Light ga,ve Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 

And sweep aAvay life's visionary stir: 

The trumpet, (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars,) 

To archangelic lips applied. 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. — 

Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just, 

Temper'd into rapturous strife, 

Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though Earth be dust 

And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 

Is in the Word, that shall not pass away.^ [1828. 



ODE. 

IKTIMATIOKS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD.^ 



The Child is Father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 
See page 129. 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparell'd in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn whereso'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

1 This has long seemed to me one of the author's greatest poems; hardly infe- 
rior, indeed, to bis Ode on IinmortaUUi, thougb less celebi'ated than that. The classi- 
cal allusions, of which there are manj-, ai'O selected with rare judgment, and used 
with consummate art: the scope of th'e piece is as wide-sweeping and inclusive as 
tlie tlieme can well admit of; yet all the parts are toned and balanced in exquisite 
harmony; and the etfect of the whole is inspiring and sovd-lifting in tiie highest de- 
gree. Nor can its freshness be exhausted : after a close familiarity of more than 
thirty-five yeiirs, it still affects me in a manner quite beyond my powers of ex- 
pression. It is as if all the voices and utterances of the woi'ld were gatlicred and 
attempered into a multitudinous anthem, now thrilling the heart Avith the deepest 
notes of awe, now soothing it with the softest notes of joy, and anon blinding the 
two in a strain that leaves no part of our emotional nature untouched. Thus much 
is the least I can say of this magnificent poem. 

2 The little poem, We are Seven, page 133, ought to be read in connection with 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 245 

II. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose ; 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

III. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng; 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

this Ode. — In his notes dictated 1843, the author has the following : " This was com- 
posed dux'ing mj-- residence at Townend, Grasmere. Two years at least passed be- 
tween the Avritiug of the first four stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive 
and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no 
harm in adverting here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on wliich 
the structure of tlie poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in child- 
hood than to admit the notion "of death as a state applicable to my own being. I 
used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself 
that, whatever might become of others, 1 should be translated, in something of the 
same way, to Heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often \inable to think 
of external things as having external existence; and I communed with all that I 
saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many 
times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree, to recall myself from 
this abyss of idealism to the realitv. At that time I was afraid of such processes. 
In later periods of life I have deplored, as we all have reason to do, a subjugation 
of an opposite character. To that dream-lilce vividness and splendour which invest 
objects of sight in childhood, everyone, I believe, if he would look back, could bear 
testimonj', and I need not dwell upon it here; but, having in the poem regarded it 
as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest 
against a conclusion, Avhich has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I 
meant to inculcate such a belief. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is 
not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of 
man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has en- 
tered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted 
with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in the Platonic philosophy. Ar- 
chimedes said that he conld move the world, if he had a point whereon to rest his 
machine. Wlio has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of liis own 
mind? Haviug to wiold some of its elements when I was impelled to write this 

Eoem on the ' Immortalitj^ of the Soul,' I took liold of the notion of pre-existcnce as 
aving sufficient foundation in humanity for authorizing mc to make for my purpose 
the best use of it I could as a poet." 



246 WORDSWORTH. 

And with the heart of May- 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival. 

My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the children are culling 
On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the Sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm : 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — 
But there's a Tree, of many, one, 

A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
And Cometh from afar: 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily further from the East 
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 247 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a Mother's mind. 
And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song: 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " • 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Pliilosophcr, who yet dost keep 

3 "Humoroua stage" is stage whereon humours, that is, whims, crotchets, or 
fancies are displayed. Tliis is the old meaning of humour. So in Shakespeare and 
Ben Jonson, passim. 



248 WOEDSWOETH. 

Tli}^ heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st th' eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by th' eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; * 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; ® 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring th' inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

4 As the matter is here viewed, the child, from the strength or instinctive action 
of an inward law, rests in the full conviction or assurance of that ti'uth, namely, 
the immortality of the soul, which the mature mind is ever struggling to make good 
by external proof and inference ; because the latter, as the stern facts of our con- 
dition press upon it, gets lost in the " dark valley; " that is, the grave cuts off from 
it the vision of a life beyond. 

5 The preceding part of this stanza has always been something of a poser to me. 
I have never been quite able to get over Colei-idge's comment upon it: "In what 
sense is a child of that age a philosopher f In what sense does he read ' th' eternal 
deep ' ? In what sense is he declared to be ^for ever haunted by the Supreme Being ' ? 
or so inspiretl as to deserve tlie titles of a mighty prophet, a blessed seer J By reflec- 
tion? by knowledge? by conscious intuition? or by nn(/ form or modiflcation of con- 
sciousness? These would be tidings indeed; but such as would presuppose an im- 
mediate revelation to the inspired communicator, and require miracles to authenti- 
cate his inspiration. But if this be too Avild and exorbitant to be suspected as hav- 
ing been the poet's meaning; if these mysterious gifts, faculties, and operations are 
noi accompanied with consciousness, who else is conscious of them? or how can it 
be called the child, if it be no part of the child's conscious being?" And again: 
"In what sense can the magnificent attributes, above quoted, be appropriated to a 
child, M'hich would not make them equally suitable to a hce, or a dog, or afield of corn f 
or even to a ship, or to the wind and waves that propel it? The omnipresent Spirit 
works equallv in them as in the child; and the child is equally unconscious of it as 
they."— On the other hand, Wordsworth, in his Essaij upon Epitaphs, pursues the theme 
in a high strain of discourse from which I must be content to give a short extivact: 
«' Foiiorn, and cut off from conimuuication with the best part of his nature, must 
that man be, who should derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the mind 
of a child, from the same luithinkiug gaiety or liveliness of animal spirits with 
which the lamb in the meadow, or any other irrational creature is endowed; who 
should ascribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the child ; to an inability arising 
from the imperfect state of his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into con- 
tact with a notion of death : or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had been in- 
stilled into him! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of nature, though lie may 
have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the early, obstinate, and unappeasable 
inquisitiveness of children upon the subject of origination? This single fact proves 
outwardly the monstrou?ncss of those suppositions: for, if we had no direct exter- 
nal testimony that the minds of very young children meditate feelingly upon death 
and immortalitv, these inquiries, which we all know they are jjerpotually making 
concerning tlie whence, do necessarily include corresponding habits of interrogation 
concerning the ichither. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co-relative. 
We may, then, be justified in asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co- 
existent and twin birth with Reason, is among the earliest of her oflspring : and we 
may further assert, that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, the 
human affections are gradually formed and opened out." 



IKTIMATIOIsTS OF IMMORTALITY. 249 

IX. 

joy! tliat in our embers 
Is sometliing that doth live, 
That nature j^et remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most w^orthy to be blest, — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-iledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things ;" 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised ; 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are 3'et the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

6 These " qucstionins^s of sense and outw^ard things" are, I suppose, the ques- 
tions which the soul puts to its visible surroundings, ever seeking from them what 
they have not to give : that is, the soul is so uuableto acquiesce in death as tlie end 
of its being, that it cannot choose but keep interrogating the world of sense for 
answers wliich must come from a higher source; and'this is taken as arguing that 
the soul is itself framed and attuned to a world above and beyond the present. 
Thus the poet finds cause to rejoice in the moral disappointments he has sustained, — 
to rejoice that the glories he saw in childliood have fallen awav from him, and van- 
ished under the pressure of experience ; because all this is a sort of pledge that his 
being has in it something gi-eater and better than this world; that the soul's true 
home is in a world where life is unfailing and death is unknown. And so, in his 
view, for the purpose in question, the "philosophic mind" more than compensates 
the loss of the instinctive faith of childhood. Wordsworth here shows that the 
thought is at least a good one for poetical use; and I think it mav be shown to be a 
good one for practical use. For, in fact-, the strongest natural argument for a future 
life is, that the higher needs and instincts of our moral being are not met in this 
world: m other words, conscience and thepi-esent state of thing do not go together; 
the one does not answer to the other; and the world is full of beginnings that are 
to be finished elsewhere, if finished at all. See page 214, note 4. 



250 WOEDSWOKTH. 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young Lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
"We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquish'd one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripjD'd lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting Sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 



THE PRELUDE. — INTEODUCTIOi^. 251 

To me the meanest flower tliat blows can give 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tearsJ [1803-6. 



THE PRELUDE, 



Prefatory Note. — This poem was begun earlv in 1799, and was finished in the 
Summer of 1805. During that time, the author, as lie himself tells us, was meditating 
a much larger work, of which The Excursion forms a part; and by way of preparation 
for this work, " he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and'progi'ess of his own 
powers, so fiir as he was acquainted with them." And he adds the following: " The 
preparatory poem is autobiographical, and conducts the history of the author's mind 
to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently 
matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself ; 
and the two works have the same kind of relation to eacli otjier, if he may so express 
himself, a« the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church."— The 'Prelude was 
addressed to Coleridge, who was residing in Malta for the restoration of his health 
when the greater part of it was composed. On his return to England, Wordsworth 
read the poem to him ; and the impression it made upon him is set forth in some very 
noble verses addressed to Wordsworth, wliich will be found among the poems by 
Coleridge given in this volume. Wordsworth speaks of The Prelude as being " ad- 
dressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to 
whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted." — The poem was not published till 
1850, soon after the author's death. 'On its first appearance, it was, I think, rather 
disappointing to the lovers of Wordsworth; but it wears well, and, if my own ex- 
perience be anj- test, never fails to improve on further acquaintance. — The whole 
poem consists of fourteen Books. Of these, I give the first two Books entire, and 
portions of several others ; which is all I can make room for, without excluding other 
pieces that seem better suited to the piu'pose of this volume. 



BOOK FIEST. 

IXTEODUCTIOX — CHILDHOOD AXD SCHOOL-TIME. 

0, THERE is blessing in this gentle breeze, 
A visitant that wliile it fans my cheek 
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings 
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. 
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come 
To none more grateful than to me ; escaped 

7 This great Ode is now commonly accepted as the crowning effort of modem 
imaginative discourse; but I suspect that few have grown to a full comprehension 
of its meaning. So deep and strong, indeed, is the undercurrent of thought, and so 
rich and varied the imagery and expression bv which those depths are svmbolized, 
that one may converse with it every day for a lifetime, without exhausting its sig- 
nificance. I must dismiss it with a brief comment from Coleridge: '• To the Ode on 
the Iiitimatiom of Immortn'itif from Recollection-^ of Earln Childhood, the poet might 
have prefixed the lines which Dante addressed to one of his own Canzoni: 

' O lyric song, there will be few, think I, 

Who may thy import understand aright ; 

Thou axiiox'thein so arduous and so high ! ' 
But the Ode Avas intended for such readers only as had been accustomed to watch 
the flux and reflux of their inmost nature, to" venture at times into the twilight 
realms of consciousness, aud to feel a deep interest in modes of inmost being, to 
which they know tliat the attributes of time and spice arc inapplicable and alien, 
but which yet c^tnnot be can\-e,,fd savB in symbols of time and space. For such 
readers the sense is sufficiently plain." 



252 WORDSWORTH. 

From the vast city/ where I long had pined 

A discontented sojourner: now free, 

Free as a bird to settle where I will. 

What dwelling shall receive me ? in what vale 

Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove 

Shall I take up my home ? and what clear stream 

Shall with its murmur lull me into rest ? 

The earth is all before me. With a heart 

Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 

I look about ; and, should the chosen guide 

Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 

I cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 

Trances of thought and mountings of the mind 

Come fast upon me : it is shaken off, 

That burthen of my own unnatural self. 

The heavy weight of many a w^eary day 

'Not mine, and such as were not made for me. 

Long months of peace, (if such bold word accord 

AVith any promises of human life,) 

Long months of ease and undisturb'd delight 

Are mine in prospect : wither shall I turn. 

By road or pathway, or through trackless field, 

Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing 

Upon the river point me out my course ? 

Dear Liberty I Yet what would it avail 
But for a gift that consecrates the joy ? 
For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heayen 
Was blowing on my body, felt within 
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved 
With quickening virtue, but is now become 
A tempest, a redundant energy. 
Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both. 
And their congenial powers, that, while they join 
In breaking up a long-continued frost. 
Bring with them vernal promises, the hope 
Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
Days of sweet leisure, tax'd with patient thought 
Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, 
Matins and vespers of harmonious verse ! 

Thus far, Friend ! did I, not used to make 
A present joy the matter of a song, 
Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains 

1 This was the city of Goslar, in Germany, where Wordsworth and his sister spent 
part of the W^inter of 1798-99, having arrived there on the 6th of October. The Winter 
was intensclv cold, — the coldest of the whole century; so that the poet had to keep 
within doors' far more than he was used to do. He left there February 10th, and was 
much exhilarated on escaping from the dreary confinement, as these lines amply 
testify. 



THE PRELUDE. — INTRODUCTION". 253 

That would not be forgotten, and are here 

Eecorded : to the open fields I told 

A prophecy : poetic numbers came 

Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 

A renovated spirit singled out, 

Such hope was mine, for holy services. 

My own voice cheer'd me, and, far more, the mind's 

Internal echo of th' imperfect sound ; 

To both I listen'd, drawing from them both 

A cheerful confidence in things to come. 

Content, and not unwilling now to give 
A respite to this passion, I paced on 
With brisk and eager steps ; and came, at length. 
To a green shady place, where down I sat 
Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, 
And settling into gentler happiness. 
'Twas Autumn, and a clear and placid day. 
With warmth, as much as needed, from a Sun 
Two hours declined towards the West; a day 
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, 
And in the shelter'd and the sheltering grove 
A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts 
Encouraged and dismiss'd, till choice was made 
Of a known Yale,^ whither my feet should turn, 
Nor rest till they had reach'd the very door 
Of the one cottage which me thought I saw. 
No picture of mere memory ever look'd 
So fair; and, while upon the fancied scene 
I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
Of glory there forthwith to be begun. 
Perhaps too there perform'd. Thus long I mused. 
Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon. 
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, 
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup 
Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once 
To the bare earth dropp'd with a startling sound. 
From that soft couch I rose not, till the Sun 
Had almost touch'd th' horizon ; casting then 
A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
Of city smoke, by distance ruralised ; 
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 
But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took. 
Even with the chance equipment of that hour, 

2 The Vale of Grasmere, where the poet and his sister took up their abode soon 
after tlieir return from Germany. 



254 WORDSWORTH. 

The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. 

It was a splendid evening, and my soul 

Once more made trial of her strength, nor lack'd 

^olian visitations ; but the harp 

Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 

Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, 

And lastly utter silence ! " Be it so ; 

Why think of any thing but present good ? " 

So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued 

My way beneath the mellowing Sun, that shed 

Mild influence ; nor left in me one wish 

Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 

To a servile yoke. What need of many words ? 

A pleasant loitering journey, through three days 

Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 

I spare to tell of what ensued, the life 

In common things, — the endless store of things, 

Eare, or at least so seeming, every day 

Found all about me in one neighbourhood, — 

The self -congratulation, and, from morn 

To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 

But speedily an earnest longing rose 

To brace myself to some determined aim, 

Heading or thinking ; either to lay up 

New stores, or rescue from decay the old 

By timely interference : and therewith 

Came hopes still higher, that with outward life 

I might endue some airy phantasies 

That had been floating loose about for years, 

And to such beings temperately deal forth 

The many feelings that oppress'd my heart. 

That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light 

Dawns from the East, but dawns to disappear 

And mock me with a sky that ripens not 

Into a steady morning : if my mind, 

Remembering the bold promise of the past. 

Would gladly grapple with some noble theme. 

Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds 

Impediments from day to day renew'd. 

And now^ it would content me to yield up 
Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
Of humbler industry. But, 0, dear Friend ! 
The Poet, gentle creature as he is. 
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times ; 
His fits when he is neither sick nor well. 
Though no distress be near him but his own 



THE PEELUDE. — INTKODUCTIOK. 355 

Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best pleased 
While she as duteous as the mother dove 
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end. 
But like the innocent bird, hath goadings-on 
That drive her as in trouble through the groves : 
With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 

When, as becomes a man who would prepare 
For such an arduous work, I through myself 
Make rigorous inquisition, the report 
Is often cheering ; for I neither seem 
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 
Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort 
Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
Surbordinate helpers of the living mind : 
Nor am I naked of external things. 
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
Of less, regard, though won perhaps with toil. 
And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these 
Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such 
As may be singled out with steady choice ; 
No little band of yet remembered names 
Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope 
To summon back from lonesome banishment. 
And make them dwellers in the hearts of men 
Now living, or to live in future years. 
Sometimes th' ambitious Power of choice, mistaking 
Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea. 
Will settle on some British theme, some old 
Eomantic tale by Milton left unsung : 
More often turning to some gentle place 
Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe 
To shepherd swains, or seated, harp in hand, 
Amid reposing knights by a river side 
Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 
By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats, 
Where spear encounter'd spear, and sword with sword 
Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife ; 
Whence inspiration for a song that winds 
Through ever-changing scenes of votive quest 
Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid 
To patient courage and unblemish'd truth, 
To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, 



256 WORDSWORTH. 

And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves. 

Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate 

How vanquish'd Mithridates northward pass'd. 

And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 

Odin, the Father of a race by whom 

Perish'd the Eoman Empire: how the friends 

And followers of Sertorious, out of Spain 

Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, 

And left their usages, their arts and laws, 

To disappear by a slow gradual death, 

To dwindle and to perish one by one. 

Starved in those narrow bonds; but not the soul 

Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 

Survived, and, when the European came 

With skill and power that might not be withstood. 

Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold 

And wasted down by glorious death that race 

Of natural heroes : or I would record 

How, in tyrannic times, some high-soul'd man, 

Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, 

Suffer'd in silence for Truth's sake : or tell. 

How that one Frenchman,' through continued force 

Of meditation on tli' inhuman deeds 

Of those who conquer'd first the Indian Isles, 

Went single in his ministry across 

The Ocean ; not to comfort the oppressed. 

But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about, 

Withering the Oppressor : how Gustavus sought 

Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: 

How AVallace fought for Scotland ; left the name 

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 

All over his dear Country ; left the deeds 

Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 

To people the steep rocks and river banks, 

Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 

Of independence and stern liberty. 

Sometimes it suits me better to invent 

A tale from my own heart, more near akin 

To my own passions and habitual thoughts ; 

Some variegated story, in the main 

Lofty, but th' unsubstantial structure melts 

Before the very Sun that brightens it. 

Mist into air dissolving ! Then a wish. 

My best and favourite aspiration, mounts 

3 Dominique de Gourges, a French gentleman who went to Florida in 1568, to 
avenge the massacre of the French by the Spaniards there. 



THE PRELUDE. — CHILDHOOD. 257 

With yearning toward some pliilosopliic song 
Of Truth that cherishes our daily life ; 
With meditations passionate from deep 
Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse 
Thoughtfully fitted to th' Orphean lyre : 
But from this awful burthen I full soon 
Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
That mellower years will bring a riper mind 
And clearer insight. Thus my days are past 
In contradiction ; with no skill to part ^ 
Vague longing, haply bred by want of power. 
From paramount impulse not to be withstood, 
A timorous capacity from prudence, 
From circumspection, infinite delay. 
Humility and modest awe themselves 
Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
To a more subtle selfishness ; that now 
Locks every function up in blank reserve, 
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
That with intrusive restlessness beats off 
Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
Ah! better far than this, to stray about 
Voluptuously through fields and rural walks. 
And ask no record of the hours, resigTi'd 
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
Of all things, and deliberate holiday. 
Far better never to have heard the name 
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour 
Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again. 
Then feels immediately some hollow thought 
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 
This is my lot ; for either still I find 
Some imperfection in the chosen theme. 
Or see of absolute accomplishment 
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself. 
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, 
Like a false steward who hath much received 
And renders nothing back. 

Was it for this 
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song. 
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice 



258 WORDSWOETH. 

That flow'd along my dreams ? For this, didst thou, 

Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 

Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 

Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 

To more than infant softness, giving me 

Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 

A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 

That Nature breathes among the hills and groves ? 

When he had left the mountains and received 

On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers 

That yet survive, a shatter'd monument 

Of feudal sway, the bright blue river pass'd 

Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 

A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. 

O, many a time have I, a five years' child. 

In a small mill-race sever'd from his stream. 

Made one long bathing of a Summer's day ; 

Bask'd in the sun, and plunged and bask'd again 

Alternate, all a Summer's day, or scour'd 

The sandy fields, leajDing through flowery groves 

Of yellow ragwort ; or, when rock and hill, 

The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height. 

Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone 

Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 

On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 

Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport, 

A naked savage, in a thunder-shower. 

Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
Foster'd alike by beauty and by fear ; 
Much favour'd in my birth-place, and no less 
In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
We were transplanted ; — there were we let loose 
Tor sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes 
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had^ snapp'd 
The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 
With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung 
To range the open heights w^here woodcocks run 
Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night, 
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
That anxious A-isitation ; — Moon and stars 
Were shining o'er my head. I was alone. 
And seem'd to be a trouble to the peace 
That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell 
In these night wanderings, that a strong desire 
O'erpower'd my better reason, and the bird 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 259 

Which was the captive of another's toil 

Became my prey; and when the deed was done 

I heard among the solitary hills 

Low breathings coming after me, and sounds 

Of undistingnishable motion, steps 

Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 

Nor less when Spring had warm'd the cultured Vale, 
Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird 
Had in high places built her lodge : though mean 
Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
"Was not ignoble. O, when I have hung 
Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
But ill sustained, and almost (so it seem'd) 
Suspended by the blast that blew amain. 
Shouldering the naked crag, O, at that time. 
While on the perilous ridge I hung alone. 
With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind 
Blow through my ear ! the sky seem'd not a sky 
Of earth ; — and with what motion moved the clouds ! 

Dust as we are, th' immortal spirit grows 
Like harmony in music ; there's a dark 
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
Discordant elements, makes them cling together 
In one society. How strange that all 
The terrors, pains, and early miseries. 
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, 
And that a needful part, in making up 
The calm existence that is mine when I 
Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! 
Thanks to the means which Nature deign'd to employ ; 
Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light 
Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may use 
Severer interventions, ministry 
More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 

One summer evening, led by her, I found 
A little boat tied to a willow tree 
Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 
Push'd from the shore. It was an act of stealth 
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice 
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on ; 
Leaving behind her still, on either side, 
Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 



260 WOKDSWORTH. 

Until they melted all into one track 

Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows. 

Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 

With an unswerving line, I fix'd my view, 

Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 

Th' horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 

Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. 

She was an elfin pinnace : lustily 

I dipp'd my oars into the silent lake. 

And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 

"Went heaving through the water like a swan ; 

When, from behind that craggy steep till then 

Th' horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, 

As if with voluntary power instinct 

Uprear'd its head. I struck and struck again, 

And growing still in stature the grim shape 

Tower'd up between me and the stars, and still, 

Eor so it seem'd, with purpose of its own 

And measured motion like a living thing. 

Strode after me. With trembling oars I turn'd, 

And through the silent water stole my way 

Back to the covert of the willow tree ; 

There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — 

And through the meadows homeward went, in grave 

And serious mood : but, after I had seen 

That spectacle, for many days, my brain 

Work'd with a dim and undetermined sense . 

Of unknown modes of being ; o'er my thoughts 

There hung a darkness, call it solitude 

Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 

Remain'd, no pleasant images of trees. 

Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields ; 

But huge and mighty forms, that do not live 

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind 

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou soul that art th' eternity of thought. 
That giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion, not in vain 
By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul ; 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man. 
But with high objects, with enduring things, — 
With life and nature, purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought. 



THE PKELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 261 

And sanctifying, by such discipline, 
Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
With stinted kindness. In November days, 
When vapours rolling down the valley made 
A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods, 
At noon and ^mid the calm of summer nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
And by the waters, all the Summer long. 

And in the frosty season, when the Sun 
Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
I heeded not their summons : happy time 
It was indeed for all of us, — for me. 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village clock toll'd six, — I wheel'd about, 
Proud and exalting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
We hiss'd along the polish'd ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and m the West 
The orange sky of evening died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
To cut across the reflex of a star 
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleam'd 
Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 



262 WOKDSWORTH. 

Stopp'd short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Whcerd by me, — even as if the Earth had roU'd 
With visible motion her diurnal round! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch'd 
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 

Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
And on the Earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
And Souls of lonely places! can I think 
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employ'd 
Such ministry, when ye through many a year 
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports 
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
Impress'd upon all forms the characters 
Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
The surface of the universal Earth 
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear. 
Work like a sea ? 

Not uselessly employ'd, 
Might I pursue this theme through every change 
Of exercise and play, to which the year 
Did summon us in his delightful round. 

We were a noisy crew ; the Sun in heaven 
Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours ; 
Nor saw a band in happiness and joy 
Eicher, or worthier of the ground they trod. 
I could record with no reluctant voice 
The woods of Autumn, and their hazel boAvers 
With milk-white clusters hung ; the rod and line, 
True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong 
And unreproved enchantment led us on 
By rocks and pools shut out from every star, 
All the green Summer, to forlorn cascades 
Among the windings hid of mountain brooks. — 
Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
The heart is almost mine with which I felt. 
From some hill-top on sunny afternoons. 
The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser; 
Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days. 
Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
Dash'd headlong, and rejected by the storm. 

Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, 
A ministration of your own was yours : 
Can I forget you, being as you were 
So beautiful among the pleasant fields 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 363 

In which ye stood? or can I here forget 

The plain and seemly countenance with which 

Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? Yet had ye 

Delights and exultations of your own. 

Eager and never weary we pursued 

Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire 

At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate 

In square divisions parcell'd out and all 

With crosses and with ciphers scribbled o'er, 

We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head 

In strife too humble to be named in verse : 

Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, 

Cherry, or maple, sat in close array. 

And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on 

A thick-ribb'd army ; not, as in the world, 

Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 

Even for the very service they had wrought, 

But husbanded through many a long campaign. 

Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 

Had changed their functions; some plebeian cards, 

Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth. 

Had dignified, and calFd to represent 

The persons of departed potentates. 

0, with what echoes on the board they fell ! 

Ironic diamonds, — clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, 

A congregation piteously akin ! 

Cheap matter offer'd they to boyish wit, 

Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 

With scoffs and taunts, like Yulcan out of Heaven : 

The paramount ace, a Moon in her eclipse. 

Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay, 

And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustain'd 

By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 

Incessant rain was falling, or the frost 

Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth ; 

And, interrupting oft that eager game, 

From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice 

The pent-up air, struggling to free itself. 

Gave out to meadow-grounds and hills a loud 

Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 

Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. 

Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair, 
And made me love them, may I here omit 
How other pleasures have been mine, and joys 



264 WORDSWORTH. 

Of subtler origin ; how I have felt, 
Not seldom even in that tempestuous time, 
Those hallow'd and pure motions of the sense 
"Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
An intellectual charm; that calm delight 
Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
To those first-born affinities that fit 
Our new existence to existing things, 
And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
The bond of union between life and joy. 

Yes, I remember when the changeful earth. 
And twice five Summers on my mind had stamped 
The faces of the moving year, even tlien 
I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
Of waters colour 'd by impending clouds. 

The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays 
Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, 
And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
Sent welcome notice of the rising Moon, 
How I have stood, to fancies such as these 
A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
No conscious memory of a kindred sight, 
And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
Of quietness or peace ; yet have I stood. 
Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league 
Of shining water, gathering as it seem'd 
Through every hair-breadth in that field of light 
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 

Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits 
Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss 
Which, like a tempest, works along the blood 
And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; — the Earth 
And common face of Nature spake to me 
Eememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis true. 
By chance collisions and quaint accidents, 
(Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
Of evil-minded fairies,) yet not vain 
Nor profitless, if haply they impress'd 
Collateral objects and appearances. 
Albeit lifeless then, and doom'd to sleep 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 265 

Until maturer seasons call'd them forth 

To impregnate and to elevate the mind. — 

And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 

Wearied itself out of the memory, 

The scenes which were a witness of that joy 

Eemain'd in their substantial lineaments 

Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 

Were visible, a daily sight ; and thus, 

By the impressive discipline of fear. 

By pleasure and repeated happiness. 

So frequently repeated, and by force 

Of obscure feelings representative 

Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, 

So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, 

Though yet the day was distant, did become 

Habitually dear, and all their forms 

And changeful colours by invisible links 

Were fasten'd to th' affections. 

I began 
My story early, — not misled, I trust. 
By an infirmity of love for days 
Disown'd by memory, — ere the breath of Spring 
Planting my snowdrops among winter snows : 
Nor will it seem to thee, Friend ! so prompt 
In sympathy, that I have lengthen'd out 
With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
Meanwhile my hope has been, that I might fetch 
Invigorating thoughts from former years ; 
Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, 
And haply meet reproaches too, whose power 
May spur me on, in manhood now mature, 
To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes 
Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught 
To understand myself, nor thou to know 
With better knowledge how the heart was framed 
Of him thou lovest ; need I dread from thee 
Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit 
Those recollected hours that have the charm 
Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
And sweet sensations that throw back our life, 
And almost make remotest infancy 
A visible scene, on which the Sun is shining ? 

One end at least hath been attain'd : my mind 
Hath been revived, and, if this genial mood 
Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down 
Through later years the story of my life. 



266 WORDSWORTH. 

The road lies plain before me ; — 'tis a theme 
Single and of determined bounds ; and hence 
I choose it rather at this time than work 
Of ampler or more varied argument, 
Where I might be discomfited and lost : 
And certain hopes are with me, that to thee 
This labour will be welcome, honour'd Friend ! 



BOOK SECOND. 

SCHOOL-TIME. — (COlirTIN^UED.) 

Thus far, Eriend ! have we, though leaving much 

Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace 

The simple ways in which my childhood walk'd ; 

Those chiefly that first led me to the love 

Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet 

Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befall, 

By nourishment that came unsought ; for still 

Erom week to week, from month to month, we lived 

A round of tumult. Duly were our games 

Prolonged in Summer till the daylight fail'd : 

No chair remain'd before the doors ; the bench 

And threshold-steps were empty ; fast asleep 

The labourer, and the old man who had sat 

A later lingerer ; yet the revelry 

Continued and the loud uproar : at last. 

When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars 

Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, 

Eeverish with weary joints and beating minds. 

Ah ! is there one who ever has been young, 

Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride 

Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem ? 

One is there, though the wisest and the best 

Of all mankind, who covets not at times 

Union that cannot be ; — who would not give. 

If so he might, to duty and to truth 

The eagerness of infantine desire ? 

A tranquillizing spirit presses now 

On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 

The vacancy between me and those days 

Which yet have such self-presence in my mind. 

That, musing on them, often do I seem 

Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 

And of some other Being. A rude mass 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 267 

Of native rock, left midway in the square 
Of our small market- village, was the goal 
Or centre of these sports ; and when, returned 
After long absence, thither I repair'd. 
Gone was the old gray stone, and in its place 
A smart Assembly-room usurp'd the ground 
That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, 
And be ye happy ! Yet, my Friends ! I know 
That more than one of you will think with me 
Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame 
From whom the stone was named, who there had sat, 
And watch'd her table with its huckster's wares 
Assiduous, through the length of sixty years. 

We ran a boisterous course ; the year span round 
With giddy motion. But the time approach'd 
That brought with it a regular desire 
For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms 
Of Kature were collaterally attached 
To every scheme of holiday delight 
And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
And languidly pursued. 

When Summer came, 
Our pastime was, on bright half -holidays. 
To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
With rival oars ; and the selected bourne 
Was now an Island musical with birds 
That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
And now a third small Island, where survived 
In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
Daily with chanted rites. In such a race 
So ended, disappointment could be none. 
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : 
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
Conquer'd, and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength 
And the vainglory of superior skill 
Were temper'd ; thus was gradually produced 
A quiet independence of the heart ; 
And, to my Friend who knows me, I may add. 
Fearless of blame, that hence for future days 
Ensued a difiidence and modesty, 
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
The self-sufiicing power of Solitude. 

Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare ! 



268 WORDSWORTH. 

More than we wish'd we knew the blessing then 

Of vigorous hunger, — hence corporeal strength 

Unsapp'd by delicate viands ; for, exclude 

A little weekly stipend, and we lived 

Through three divisions of the quartered year 

In penniless poverty. But now to school 

From the half-yearly holidays returned. 

We came with weightier purses, that sufficed 

To furnish treats more costly than the Dame 

Of th' old gray stone, from her scant board, supplied. 

Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, 

Or in the woods, or by a river side 

Or shady fountains, while among the leaves 

Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day Sun 

Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy» 

Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 

How sometimes, in the length of those half-years, 

We from our funds drew largely; — proud to curb, 

And eager to spur on, the galloping steed ; 

And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud 

Supplied our want, we haply might employ 

Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound 

Were distant ; some famed temple where of yore 

The Druids worshipp'd, or the antique walls 

Of that large abbey, where within the Yale 

Of Nightshade, to Saint Mary's honour built, 

Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch^ 

BeKry, and images, and living trees, 

A holy scene ! Along the smooth green turf 

Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace 

Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 

From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers 

In that sequester'd valley may be seen. 

Both silent and both motionless alike ; 

Such the deep shelter that is there, and such 

The safeguard for repose and quietness. 

Our steeds remounted and the summons given, 
With whip and spur we through the cliauntry flew 
In uncouth race, and left the cross-legg'd knight, 
And the stone-abbot, and that single wren 
Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave 
Of the old church, that — though from recent showers 
The earth was comfortless, and, touch'd by faint 
Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
And respirations, from the roofless walls 
The shuddering ivy dripp'd large drops — yet still 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 269 

So sweetly 'mid the gloom th' invisible bird 

Sang to herself, that there I could have made 

My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there 

To hear such music. Through the walls we flew 

And down the valley, and, a circuit made 

In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth 

We scamper'd homewards. 0, ye rocks and streams, 

And that still spirit shed from evening air ! 

Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt 

Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed 

Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 

Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea 

We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. 

Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, 
Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
A tavern stood ; no homely-featured house 
Primeval like its neighbouring cottages. 
But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset 
With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within 
Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built 
On the large island, had this dwelling been 
More worthy of a poet's love, a hut 
Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. 
But — though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed 
The threshold, and large golden characters. 
Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged 
Th' old Lion and usurp'd his place, in slight 
And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
Of a small bowling-green ; beneath us stood 
A grove, with gleams of water through the trees 
And over the tree-tops ; nor did we want 
Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. 
There, while through half an afternoon we play'd 
On the smooth platform, whether skill prevail'd 
Or happy blunder triumph'd, bursts of glee 
Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall, 
When in our pinnace we return'd at leisure 
Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach 
Of some small island steer'd our course with one, 
The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, 
And row'd off gently, while he blew his flute 
Alone upon the rock, — 0, then the calm 



270 WORDSWORTH. 

And dead still water lay upon my mind 
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, 
Never before so beautiful, sank down 
Into my heart, and held me like a dream! 
Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus 
Daily the common range of visible things 
Grew dear to me : already I began 
To love the Sun ; a boy I loved the Sun, 
Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
And surety of our earthly life, a light 
Which we behold and feel we are alive ; 
Nor for his bounty to so many worlds ; — 
But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
The western mountain touch his setting orb, 
In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess 
Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. 
And, from like feelings, humble though intense, 
To patriotic and domestic love 
Analogous, the Moon to me was dear ; 
For I could dream away my purposes. 
Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
No other region, but belong'd to thee, 
Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
To thee and thy gray huts, thou one dear Vale ! 
Those incidental charms which first attached 
My heart to rural objects day by day 
Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
How Nature, intervenient till this time 
And secondary, now at length was sought 
For her own sake. But who shall parcel out 
His intellect by geometric rules. 
Split like a province into round and square ? 
Who knows the individual hour in which 
His habits were first sown, even as a seed ? 
Who that shall point as with a wand and say, 
" This portion of the river of my mind 
Came from yon fountain ? " Thou, my Friend ! art one 
More deeply read in thine own thoughts : to thee 
Science appears but what in truth she is. 
Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 
But as a succedaneum, and a prop 
To our infirmity. No officious slave 
Art thou of that false secondary power 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 271 

By which we multiply distinctions, then 

Deem that our puny boundaries are things 

That we perceive, and not that we have made. 

To thee, unblinded by these formal arts. 

The unity of all hath been reveal'd ; 

And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skill'd 

Than many are to range the faculties 

In scale and order, class the cabinet 

Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase 

Run through the history and birth of each 

As of a single independent thing. 

Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind, 

If each most obvious and particular thought, 

Not in a mystical and idle sense. 

But in the words of Reason deeply weigh'd. 

Hath no beginning. 

Blest the infant Babe, 
(For with my best conjecture I would trace 
Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe, 
Xursed ia his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleep 
Rock'd on his Mother's breast ; who with his soul 
Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye ! 
For him, in one dear Presence, there exists 
A virtue which irradiates and exalts 
Objects through widest intercourse of sense. 
No outcast he, bewilder'd and depress'd ; 
Along his infant veins are interfused 
The gravitation and the filial bond 
Of nature that connect him with the world. 
Is there a flower to which he points with hand 
Too weak to gather it, already love, 
Drawn from love's purest earthly fount, for him 
Hath beautified that flower ; already shades 
Of pity cast from inward tenderness 
Do fall around him upon aught that bears 
Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
Emphatically such a being lives. 
Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
An inmate of this active universe. 
For feeling has to him imparted power 
That through the growing faculties of sense 
Doth like an agent of the one great Mind 
Create, creator and receiver both, 
Working but in alliance with the works 
Which it beholds. — Such, verily, is the first 
Poetic spirit of our human life, 



272 WORDSWORTH. 

By uniform control of after years, 
In most, abated or suppress'd ; in some, 
Tlirongh every cliange of growth and of decay. 
Pre-eminent till death. 

From early days. 
Beginning not long after that first time 
In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart, 
I have endeavour'd to display the means 
Whereby this infant sensibility, 
Great birthright of our being, was in me 
Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
More difficult before me ; and I fear 
That in its broken windings we shall need 
The chamois' sinews and the eagle's wing : 
For now a trouble came into my mind 
From unknown causes. I was left alone 
Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. 
The props of my affections were removed. 
And yet the building stood, as if sustain'd 
By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
The mind lay open, to a more exact 
And close communion. Many are our joys 
In youth, but, 0, what happiness to live 
When every hour brings palpable access 
Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight. 
And sorrow is not there ! The seasons came. 
And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
Unfolded transitory qualities. 
Which, but for this most watchful power of love. 
Had been neglected ; left a register 
Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude 
More active even than "best society," — 
Society made sweet as solitude 
By silent inobtrusive sympathies. 
And gentle agitations of the mind 
From manifold distinctions, difference 
Perceived in things, where, to th' unwatchful eye, 
'No difference is ; and hence, from the same source, 
Sublimer joy: for I would walk alone. 
Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound 
To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand, 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 273 

If the night blacken'd with a coming storm. 
Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are 
The ghostly language of the ancient Earth, 
Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
Thence did I drink the visionary power ; 
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
Of shadowy exultation : not for this. 
That they are kindred to our purer mind 
And intellectual life ; but that the soul, 
Eemembering how she felt, but what she felt 
Remembering not, retains an obscure sense 
Of possible sublimity, whereto 
With growing faculties she doth aspire, 
AVith faculties still growing, feeling still 
That, whatsoever point they gain, they yet 
Have something to pursue. 

And not alone 
'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair 
And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
And fitness in the latent qualities 
And essences of things, by which the mind 
Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
Came, strengthen'd with a superadded soul, 
A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
Were early; — oft before the hours of school 
I traveird round our little lake, five miles 
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear 
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend 
Then passionately loved; with heart how full 
W^ould he pursue these lines ! For many years 
Have since flow'd in between us, and, our minds 
Both silent to each other, at this time 
We live as if those hours had never been. 
Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 
Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 
From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
Was audible ; and sat among the woods 
Alone upon some jutting eminence. 
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, 
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
How shall I seek the origin ? where find 
Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt ? 
Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes 
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
Appear'd like something in myself, a dream, 



274 WOEDSWOKTH. 

A prospect in the mind. 

'Twere long to tell 
What Spring and Autumn, what the winter snows, 
And what the summer shade, what day and night, 
Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought 
From sources inexhaustible, pour'd forth 
To feed the spirit of religious love 
In which I walk'd with Nature. But let this 
Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
My first creative sensibility ; 
That by the regular action of the world 
My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
Rebellious, acting in a devious mood; 
A local spirit of his own, at w^ar 
With general tendency, but, for the most, 
Subservient strictly to external things 
With which it communed. An auxiliar light 
Came from my mind, which on the setting Sun 
Bestow'd new splendour ; the melodious birds, 
The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on 
Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obey'd 
A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
Grew darker in the presence of my eye : 
Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
And hence my transport. 

Nor should this, perchance. 
Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
The exercise and produce of a toil, 
Than analytic industry to me 
More pleasing, and whose character I deem 
Is more poetic, as resembling more 
Creative agency. The song would speak 
Of that interminable building rear'd 
By observation of affinities 
In objects where no brotherhood exists 
To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come ; 
And, whether from this habit rooted now 
So deeply in my mind, or from excess 
In the great social principle of life 
Coercing all things into sympathy. 
To unorganic natures were transferred 
My own enjoyments; or the power of truth. 
Coming in revelation, did converse 
With things that really are ; I, at this time, 
Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 



THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 275 

Thus, while the days flew by, and years pass'd on. 

From Nature and her overflowing soul 

I had received so much, that all my thoughts 

Were steep'd in feeling ; I was only then 

Contented, when with bliss ineffable 

I felt the sentiment of Being spread 

O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; 

O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 

And human knowledge, to the human eye 

Invisible, yet liveth to the heart ; 

O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, 

Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 

Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 

And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 

If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 

Communing in this sort through earth and heaven 

With every form of creature, as it look'd 

Towards tli' Uncreated with a countenance 

Of adoration, with an eye of love. 

One song they sang, and it was audible, 

Most audible then, when the fleshly ear, 

O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 

Forgot her functions, and slept undisturb'd. 

If this be error, and another faith 
Find easier access to the pious mind, 
Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
Those human sentiments that make this Earth 
So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes 
And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
If in my youth I have been pure in heart, 
If, mingling with the world, I am content 
With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
With Grod and JSTature communing, removed 
From little enmities and low desires. 
The gift is yours ; if in these times of fear, 
This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
If, 'mid indiflerence and apathy, 
And wicked exultation, when good men 
On every side fall off, we know not how, 
To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
Of peace and quiet and domestic love, 
Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
On visionary minds ; if, in this time 
Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 



276 WOKDSWORTH. 

Despair not of our nature, but retain 

A more than Eoman confidence, a faith 

That fails not, in all sorrow my support. 

The blessing of my life ; the gift is yours, 

Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours, 

Ye mountains ! thine, Nature ! Thou hast fed 

My lofty speculations ; and in thee. 

For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 

A neyer-f ailing principle of joy 

And purest passion. 

Thou, my Friend, wert reared 
In the great city, 'mid far other scenes ; 
But we, by different roads, at length have gain'd 
The self-same bourne. And for this cause to thee 
I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 
Th' insinuated scoff of coward tongues. 
And all that silent language which so oft 
In conversation between man and man 
Blots from the human countenance all trace 
Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought 
The truth in solitude, and, since the days 
That gave thee liberty, full long desired. 
To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast been 
The most assiduous of her ministers ; 
In many things my brother, chiefly here 
In this our deep devotion. 

Fare thee well ! 
Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
Attend thee ! seeking oft the haunts of men, 
And yet more often living with thyself. 
And for thyself ; so, haply, shall thy days 
Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 



FIRST YEAR m COLLEGE. 

(From the Prelude, Book in.) 

Th' Evangelist Saint John my patron was : 
Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure ; 
Right underneath, the College kitchens made 
A humming sound, less tuneable than bees. 
But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes 
Of sharp command and scolding intermix'd. 
Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock. 
Who never let the quarters, night or day, 



FIRST YEAR IN COLLEGE. 277 

Slip b}^ liim unproclaim'cl, and told the hours 
Twice over with a male and female voice. 
Her pealing organ was my neighbour too ; 
And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
Of Moon or favouring stars, 1 could behold 
The antechapel where the statue stood 
Of Newton wdth his prism and silent face, 
The marble index of a mind for ever 
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought,, alone. 

Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room 
All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, 
With loyal students faithful to their books, 
Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants. 
And honest dunces ; of important days. 
Examinations, when the man was weigh'd 
As in a balance ; of excessive hopes. 
Tremblings withal and commendable fears. 
Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad, — 
Let others that know more speak as they know. 
Such glory vv^as but little sought by me. 
And little won. Yet, from the first crude days 
Of settling-time in this untried abode, 
I was disturb'd at times by prudent thoughts. 
Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears 
About my future worldly maintenance. 
And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind, 
A feeling that I was not for that hour, 
Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down ? 
For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope, 
Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
As one far mightier) hither I had come. 
Bear witness Truth, endow'd with holy powers 
And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 
Had ceased to dazzle, of ttimes did I quit 
My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves, 
And, as I paced alone the level fields 
Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime 
With which I had been conversant, the mind 
Droop'd not ; but there into herself returning 
With prompt rebound seem'd fresh as heretofore. 
At least I more distinctly recognised 
Her native instincts : let me dare to speak 
A higher language, say that now I felt 



278 



WORDSWORTH. 

What independent solaces were mine, 

To mitigate th' injurious sway of place 

Or circumstance, how far soever changed 

In youth, or to be changed in manhood's prime; 

Or for the few who shall be calFd to look 

On the long shadows in our evening years, 

Ordain'd precursors to the night of death. 

As if awaken' d, summon'd, roused, constrain'd, 

I look'd for universal things ; perused 

The common countenance of earth and sky ; 

Earth, nowhere unimbellish'd by some trace 

Of that first Paradise whence man was driven ; 

And sky, whose beauty and bounty are express'd 

By the proud name she bears, — the name of Heaven. 

I calFd on both to teach me what they might ; 

Or turning the mind in upon herself 

Pored, watch' d, expected, listen'd, spread my thoughts, 

And spread them with a wider creeping; felt 

Incumbencies more awful, vi sitings 

Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul. 

That tolerates th' indignities of Time, 

And, from the centre of Eternity, 

All finite motions overruling, lives 

In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 

Here to record that I was mounting now 

To such community with highest truth, — 

A track pursuing, not untrod before, 

From strict analogies by thought supplied 

Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 

To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower. 

Even the loose stones that cover the high-way, 

I gave a moral life : I saw them feel, 

Or link'd them to some feeling: the great mass 

Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all 

That I beheld respired with inward meaning. 

Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love 

Or Beauty Nature's daily face put on 

From transitory passion, unto this 

I was as sensitive as waters are 

To the sky's influence in a kindred mood 

Of passion ; was obedient as a lute 

That waits upon the touches of the wind. 

Unknown, unth ought of, yai I was most rich, — 

I had a world about me, — 'twas my own ; 

I made it, for it only lived to me. 

And to the God who sees into the heart. 



FLRST YEAR IX COLLEGE, 279 

Such sympathies, though rarely, were betray'd 

By outward gestures and by visible looks : 

Some call'd it madness, — so indeed it was, 

If childlike fruitfulness in passing joy. 

If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured 

To inspiration, sort with such a name ; 

If prophecy be madness ; if things yiew'd 

By poets in old time, and higher up 

By the first men. Earth's first inhabitants, 

May in these tutor'd days no more be seen 

With undisorder'd sight. But, leaving this, 

It was no madness, for the bodily eye 

Amid my strongest workings evermore 

Was searching out the lines of difference. 

As they lie hid in all external forms, 

Kear or remote, minute or vast ; an eye 

Which from a tree, a stone, a wither'd leaf, 

To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 

Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 

Could find no surface where its power might sleep ; 

Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 

And by an unrelenting agency 

Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 

Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
And superficial pastimes ; now and then 
Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes ; 
And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
Of indecisive judgments, that impair d 
And shook the mind's simplicity. — And yet 
This was a gladsome time. Could I behold, — 
Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide. 
Could have beheld ? — with undelighted heart, 
So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
A congregation in its budding-time 
Of health and hope and beauty, all at once 
So many divers samples fi'om the growth 
Of life's sweet season, — could have seen unmoved 
That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers 
Decking the matron temples of a place 
So famous through the world ? To me, at least, 
It was a goodly prospect : for, in sooth. 
Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropp'd, 
And independent musings pleased me so 
That spells seem'd on me when I was alone, 



280 WORDSWORTH. 

Yet could I only cleave to solitude 
In lonely places ; if a throng was near 
That way I lean'd by nature ; for my heart 
Was social, and loved idleness and joy. 

Not seeking those who might participate 
My deeper pleasures, easily I pass'd 
From the remembrances of better things. 
And slipped into the ordinary works 
Of careless youth, unburtheu'd, unalarm'd. 
Caverns there were within my mind which sun 
Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
Want store of leafy arhours where the light 
Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all. 
We saunter'd, play'd, or rioted ; we talk'd 
Unprofitable talk at morning hours ; 
Drifted about along the streets and walks, 
Eead lazily in trivial books, went forth 
To gallop through the country in blind zeal 
Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast 
Of Cam sail'd boisterously, and let the stars 
Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought. 

Such was the tenour of the second act 
In this new life. Imagination slept. 
And yet not utterly. I could not print 
Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps 
Of generations of illustrious men, 
Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept. 
Wake where they had waked, range that inclosure old, 
That garden of great intellects, undisturb'd. 
Place also by the side of this dark sense 
Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, 
Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, 
Seem'd humbled in these precincts, thence to be 
The more endear'd. Their several memories here 
(Even like their persons in their portraits clothed 
With the accustom'd garb of daily life) 
Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
Of more distinct humanity, that left 
All genuine admiration unimpair'd. 

Beside the pleasant Mill at Trompington 
I laugh'd with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade ; 
Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 
Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, 
Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State, — 



FIRST YEAR IN COLLEGE. 281 

Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven 

With the Moon's beauty and the Moon's soft pace, 

I call'd him Brother, Englishman, and Friend ! 

Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, 

Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth, — 

Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, — 

Soul awful, — if the Earth has ever lodged 

An awful soul ; — I seem' d to see him here 

Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 

Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth, — 

A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 

Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, 

And conscious step of purity and pride. 

Among the band of my compeers was one 

Whom chance had station'd in the very room 

Honour'd by Milton's name. temperate Bard ! 

Be it confest that, for the first time, seated 

Within thy innocent lodge and oratory. 

One of a festive circle, I pour'd out 

Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 

And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 

Never excited by the fumes of wine 

Before that hour, or since. Then forth I ran 

From the assembly ; through a length of streets, 

Ean, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel-door 

In not a desperate or opprobrious time, 

Albeit long after the importunate bell 

Had stopp'd, with wearisome Cassandra voice 

No longer haunting the dark winter night. 

Call back, Friend! a moment to thy mind 

The place itself and fashion of the rites. 

With careless ostentation shouldering up 

My surplice, through th' inferior throng I clove 

Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood 

On the last skirts of their permitted ground. 

Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts ! 

I am ashamed of them : and that great Bard, 

And thou, O Friend ! who in thy ample mind 

Hast placed me high above my best deserts, 

Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour. 

In some of its unworthy vanities. 

Brother to many more. 

In this mix'd sort 
The months pass'd on, remissly, not given up 
To wilful alienation from the right. 
Or walks of open scandal, but in vague 



282 WORDSWORTH. 

And loose indifference, easy likings, aims 

Of a low pitch, — duty and zeal dismiss'd. 

Yet nature, or a happy course of things 

Not doing in their stead the needful work. 

The memory languidly revolved, the heart 

Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 

Of contemplation almost fail'd to beat. 

Such life might not inaptly be compared 

To a floating island, an amphibious spot 

Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 

Not wanting a fair face of water-weeds 

And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living praise, 

Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight 

Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, 

Where mighty minds lie visibly entomb'd. 

Have often stirr'd the heart of youth, and bred 

A fervent love of rigorous discipline. — 

Alas ! such high emotion touch'd not me. 

Look was there none within these walls to shame 

My easy spirits, and discountenance 

Their light composure, far less to instil 

A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 

To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame 

Of others, but my own ; I should, in truth, 

As far as doth concern my single self. 

Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere. 

But peace to vain regrets ! We see but darkly - 
Even when we look behind us, and best things 
Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
Must keep to all, as fondly all believe. 
Their highest promise. If the mariner. 
When at reluctant distance he hath pass'd 
Some tempting island, could but know the ills 
That must have fall'n upon him had he brought 
His bark to land upon the wish'd-for shore. 
Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf 
Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that blew 
Inexorably adverse : for myseK 
I grieve not ; happy is the gowned youth, 
Who only misses what I miss'd, who falls 
No lower than I fell. 



BOOKS. 283 

BOOKS. 

(From the Prelude, Book v.) 

Great and benign, indeed, must be the power 
Of living Nature, which could thus so long 
Detain me from the best of other guides * 
And dearest helpers, left unthank'd, unpraised. 
Even in the time of lisping infancy ; 
And later down, in prattling childhood even, 
"While I was travelling back among those days, 
How could I ever play an ingrate's part ? 
Once more should I have made those bowers resound, 
By intermingling strains of thankfulness 
With their own thoughtless melodies; at least 
It might have well beseem'd me to repeat 
Some simply-fashion'd tale, to tell again. 
In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale 
That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now. 
Friend ! Poet ! brother of my soul, 
Think not that I could pass along untouched 
By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak ? 
Why call upon a few weak words to say 
What is already written in the hearts 
Of all that breathe ? — what in the path of all 
Drops daily from the tongue of every child, 
Wherever man is found ? The trickling tear 
Upon the cheek of listening Infancy 
Proclaims it, and th' insuperable look 
That drinks as if it never could be full. 
That portion of my story I shall leave 
There register'd : whatever else of power 
Or pleasure sown or foster'd thus, may be 
Peculiar to myself, let that remain 
Where still it works, though hidden from all search 
Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
That here, in memory of all books which lay 
Their sure foundations in the heart of man, 
Whether by native prose or numerous verse. 
That in the name of all inspired souls, 
From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice 
That roars along the bed of Jewish song, 
And that more varied and elaborate. 
Those trumpet- tones of harmony that shake 
Our shores in England, — from those loftiest notes 
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made 

4 The " other guides '' here referred to are books. 



284 WORDSWORTH. 

For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, 

And snn-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs. 

Stretch "d under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes. 

Food for the hungry ears of little ones. 

And of old men who have survived their joys ; — 

'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works. 

And of the men that framed them, whether known 

Or sleeping nameless in their scatter'd graves. 

That I should here assert their rights, attest 

Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce 

Their benediction ; speak of them as Powers 

For ever to be hallow'd ; only less. 

For what we are and what we may become. 

Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God, 

Or His pure AYord by miracle reveal'd. 

Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop 
To transitory themes; yet I rejoice, 
And, by these thoughts admonish'd, will pour out 
Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was rear'd 
Safe from an evil which these days have laid 
Upon the children of the land, a pest 
That might have dried me up, body and soul. 
This verse is dedicate to Nature's self, 
And things that teach as Nature teaches : then, 
0, wJiere had been the Man, the Poet where. 
Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend ! 
If in the season of unperilous choice. 
In lieu of wandering, as we did, tli rough vales 
Rich with indigenous produce, open ground 
Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will. 
We had been followed, hourly watch'd, and noosed, 
Each in his several melancholy walk 
String'd like a poor man's heifer at its feed, 
Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude ; 
Or rather like a stalled ox debarr'd 
From touch of growing grass, that may not taste 
A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 

Behold the parent hen amid her brood, 
Though fledged and feather'd, and well pleased to part 
And straggle from her presence, still a brood. 
And she herself from the maternal bond 
Still undischarged ; yet doth she little more 
Than move with them in tenderness and love, 
A centre to the circle v,?hich they make ; 
And now and then, alike from need of theirs 



BOOKS. 285 

And call of her own natural appetites, 

She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food, 

Which they partake at pleasure. Early died • 

My honour 'd Mother, she who was the heart 

And hinge of all our learnings and our loves : 

She left us destitute, and, as we might, 

Trooping together. Little suits it me 

To break upon the sabbath of her rest 

"With any thought that looks at others' blame ; 

Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 

Hence am I check'd : but let me boldly say. 

In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, 

Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught. 

Fetching her goodness rather from times past 

Than shaping novelties for times to come, 

Had no presumption, no such jealousy, 

Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 

Our nature, but had virtual faith that He 

Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk, 

Doth also for our nobler part provide. 

Under His great correction and control, 

As innocent instincts and as innocent food ; 

Or draAvs for minds that are left free to trust 

In the simplicities of opening life 

Sweet honey out of spurn'd or dreaded weeds. 

This was her creed, and therefore she was pure 

From anxious fear of error or mishap, 

And evil, overweeningly so call'd ; 

Was not puff'd up by false unnatural hopes, 

Nor selfish with unnecessary cares. 

Nor with impatience from the season ask'd 

More than its timely produce ; rather loved 

The hours for what they are than from regard 

Glanced on their promises in restless pride. 

Such was she ; not from faculties more strong 

Than others have, but from the times, perhaps, 

And spot in which she lived, and through a grace 

Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 

A heart that found benignity and hope. 

Being itself benign. 

My drift I fear 
Is scarcely obvious ; but, that common sense 
May try this modern system by its fruits. 
Leave let me take to place before her sight 
A specimen portray'd with faithful hand. 
Full early trained to worship seemliness. 



286 WORDSWORTH. 

This model of a child is never known 

To mix in quarrels ; that were far beneath 

His dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er 

As generous as a fountain ; selfishness 

May not come near him, nor the little throng 

Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path; 

The wandering beggars propagate his name. 

Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, 

And natural or supernatural fear, 

Unless it leap upon him in a dream. 

Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see 

How arch his notices, how nice his sense 

Of the ridiculous ; not blind is he 

To the broad follies of the licensed world, 

Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd. 

And can read lectures upon innocence : 

A miracle of scientific lore. 

Ships he can guide across the pathless sea. 

And tell you all their cunning; he can read 

The inside of the earth, and spell the stars ; 

He knows the policies of foreign lands ; 

Can string you names of districts, cities, towns, 

The whole world over, tight as beads of dew 

Upon a gossamer thread ; he sifts, he weighs ; 

All things are put to question; he must live 

Knowing that he grows wiser every day 

Or else not live at all, and seeing too 

Each little drop of wisdom as it falls 

Into the dimplmg cistern of his heart : 

For this unnatural growth the trainer blame. 

Pity the tree. — Poor human vanity, 

Wert thou extinguish'd, little would be left 

Which he could truly love : but how escape ? 

For ever, as a thought of purer birth 

Rises to lead him toward a better clime. 

Some intermeddler still is on the watch 

To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray. 

Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 

Meanwhile old grandame Earth is grieved to find 

The playthings, which her love design'd for him, 

Unthought of : in their woodland beds the flowers 

Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 

0, give us once again the wishing cap 

Of Fortunatus, and th' invisible coat 

Of Jack the Giant-Killer, Robin Hood, 

And Sabra in the forest with Saint George ! 



BOOKS. 287 

The child whose love is here at least doth reap 
One precious gain, that he forgets himself. 

These mighty workmen of our later age, 
Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged 
The f reward chaos of futurity, 
Tamed to their bidding ; they Avho have skill 
To manage books, and things, and make them act 
On infant minds as surely as the Sun 
Deals with a flower ; the keepers of our time. 
The guides and wardens of our faculties, 
Sages who in their prescience would control 
All accidents, and to the very road 
Which they have fashion'd would confine us down, 
Like engines; — when will their presumption learn, 
That in th' unreasoning progress of the world 
A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
A better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
Of blessings, and most studious of our good. 
Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours ? 

There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
And islands of Winander ! — many a time 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Kising or setting, would he stand alone 
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
Press'd closely j)alm to palm, and to his mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
That they might answer him : and they would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Eesponsive to his call, with quivering peals. 
And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud, 
Eedoubled and redoubled, — concourse wild 
Of jocund din; and, when a lengthen'd pause 
Of silence came and baffied his best skill. 
Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind. 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
Lato the bosom of the steady lake. 

This Boy was taken from his mates, and died 
Jn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 



288 WORDSWORTH. 

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 

Where he was born; the grassy church yard hangs 

Upon a sloj^e above the village school, 

And through that churchyard when my way has led 

On summer evenings, I believe that there 

A long half hour together I have stood 

Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! 

Even now appears before the mind's clear eye 

That self-same village church ; I see her sit 

(The throned Lady whom erewhile we hail'd) 

On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 

Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, too. 

Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves, 

And listening only to the gladsome sounds 

That, from the rural school ascending, play 

Beneath her and about her. May she long 

Behold a race of 5^0 ung ones like to those 

With whom I herded ! — (easily, indeed, 

We might have fed upon a fatter soil 

Of arts and letters, but be that forgiven,) — 

A race of real children ; not too wise. 

Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh, 

And bandied up and down by love and hate ; 

JSTot unresentful where self -justified; 

Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy ; 

Mad at their sports like wither 'd leaves in winds ; 

Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft^ 

Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight 

Of pain and doubt and fear, yet yielding not 

In happiness to the happiest upon Earth. 

Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, 

Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds ; 

May books and Nature be their early joy ! 

And knowledge, rightly honour'd with that name, — 

Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power ! 

A gracious spirit o'er this Earth presides, 
And o'er the heart of man : invisibly 
It comes, to works of unreproved delight 
And tendency benign, directing those 
Who care not, know not, think not what they do. 
The tales that charm away the wakeful night 
In Araby, romances ; legends penn'd 
For solace by dim light of monkish lamps ; 
Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
By youthful squires ; adventures endless spun 
By the dismantled warrior in old age, 



SIGHTS IK LOifDOK. 28^. 

Out of the bowels of those very schemes 

In which his youth did first extravagate, — 

These spread like day, and something in the shape 

Of these will live till man shall be no more. 

Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, 

And they must have their food. Our childhood sits, 

Our simple childhood sits upon a throne 

That hath more power than all the elements, 

I guess not what this tells of Being past, 

Nor what it augurs of the life to come ; 

But so it is, and, in that dubious hour, 

That twilight when we first begin to see 

This dawning Earth, to recognise, expect, 

And in the long probation that ensues, 

The time of trial, ere we learn to live 

In reconcilement with our stinted powers ; 

To endure this state of meagre vassalage. 

Unwilling to forego, confess, submit. 

Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 

To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed 

And humbled down ; 0, then we feel, we feel. 

We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then, 

Forgers of daring tales, we bless you then. 

Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 

Philosophy will call you ; then we feel 

With what, and how great might ye are in league, 

Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed, 

An empire, a possession, — ye whom time 

And seasons serve ; all Faculties to w^hom 

Earth crouches, th' elements are potter's clay, 

Space like a heaven fill'd up with northern lights. 

Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once. 



SIGHTS m LONDON. 

{Fr<ym the Prelude, Book vii.) 

Pass we from entertainments, that are such 
Professedly, to others titled higher. 
Yet, in the estimate of youth at least, 
More near akin to those than names imply, — 
I mean the braw^ls of lawyers in their courts 
Before the ermined Judge, or that great stage 
Where senators, tongue-favour'd men, perform, 
Admired and envied. 0, the beating heart ! 
When one among tlie prime of these rose up, — 



290 WOKDSWORTH. 

One, of whose name from childhood we had heard 

Familiarly, a household term, like those. 

The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old 

Whom the fifth Harry talks of.* Silence ! hush I 

This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, 

No stammerer of a minute, painfully 

Deliver'd. No ! the Orator hath yoked 

The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car. 

Thrice welcome Presence ! how can patience e'er 

Grow weary of attending on a track 

That kindles with such glory ! All are charm'd, 

Astonish'd ; like a hero in romance, 

He winds away his never-ending horn ; 

Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense: 

What memory and what logic ! till the strain 

Transcendent, superhuman as it seem'd. 

Grows tedious even in a young man's ^ear. 

Genius of Burke 1 forgive the pen s'educed 
By specious wonders, and too slow to tell 
Of what th' ingenuous, what bewilder'd men, 
Begiiming to mistrust their boastful guides. 
And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught, 
Kapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue, — 
Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave. 
I see him — old, but vigorous in age — • 
Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start 
Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe 
The younger brethren of the grove. But some, — 
While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth. 
Against all systems built on abstract rights. 
Keen ridicule ; the majesty proclaims 
Of Institutes and Laws, hallow'd by time ; 
Declares the vital power of social ties 
Endear'd by Custom ; and, with high disdain 
Exploding upstart Theory, insists 
Upon th' allegiance to which men are born ; — 
Some — say at once a f roward multitude — 
Murmur, (for truth is hated, where not loved,) 
As the winds fret within th' ^olian cave, 
Gall'd by their monarch's chain. The times were big 
With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked 
Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised ; 
But memorable moments intervened, 
When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain, 

6 The allusion is to the King's speech in Shakespeare's King Henry the Fifth, Act 
iv. scene 3, beginning, ♦' What's he, that wishes so? " 



ME]S^ AS THEY AKE MEI^. 291 

Broke forth in armour of resplendent words, 
Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one 
In ancient story versed, whose breast hath heaved 
Under the weight of classic eloquence. 
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?® 

Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
To achieve its higher triumph. — Not unf elt 
Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard 
The awful truths deliver'd thence by tongues 
Endow'd with various power to search the soul; 
Yet ostentation, domineering, oft 
Pour'd forth harangues, how sadly out of place ! — 
There have I seen a comely bachelor, 
Fresh from a toilet of two hours, ascend 
His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up. 
And, in a tone elaborately low 
Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze 
A minuet course ; and, winding up his mouth, 
From time to time, into an orifice 
Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small. 
And only not invisible, again 
Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 
Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. 
Meanwhile th' Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
Moses, and he who penn'd, the other day. 
The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard 
Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme 
With fancies thick as his inspiring stars,' 
And Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth) 
Summon'd from streamy Morven, — each and all 
Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers 
To entwine the crook of eloquence that help'd 
This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, 
To rule and guide his captivated flock. 



"MEN AS THEY ARE MEN." 

{From The Prelude, Book xiii.) 

0, KEXT to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed, 
Alas ! to few in this untoward world. 
The bliss of walking daily in life's prime 

6 At first, Wordsworth deeply regretted, not to saj?' resented, the ground Burke 
took on the French revolution. The great statesman, in his prophetic rapture, then 
seemed to him little better than downright crazy. But he afterwards became con- 
vinced, as he well might, that Burke's folly was wiser than the wisdom of auy or of 
all who maligned or opposed him. 

7 Beferring, probably, to Young's Night Thoughts. 



292 WOKDSWOKTH. 

Through field or forest with the maid we love, 
While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe 
Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 
Deep Yale, or anywhere, the home of both, 
From which it would be misery to stir ; — 
0, next to such enjoyment of our youth, 
In my esteem, next to such dear delight. 
Was that of wandering on from day to day 
Where I could meditate in peace, and cull 
Knowledge that step by step might lead me on 
To wisdom ; or, as lightsome as a bird 
Wafted upon the wind from distant lands, 
Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves, 
Which lack'd not voice to welcome me in turn : 
And, when tliat pleasant toil had ceased to please, 
Converse with men, where if we meet a face 
We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
With long, long ways before, by cottage bench, 
Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests. 

Who doth not love to follow with his eye 
The windings of a public way ? the sight, 
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 
On my imagination since the morn 
Of childhood, when a disappearing line. 
One daily present to my eyes, that cross'd 
The naked summit of a far-off hill 
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod. 
Was like an invitation into space 
Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
Yes, something of the grandeur which invests 
The mariner who sails the roaring sea 
Through storm and darkness, early in my mind 
Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth ; 
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites ; 
From many other uncouth vagrants (pass'd 
In fear) have walk'd with quicker step ; but why 
Take note of this ? When I began to inquire. 
To watch and question those I met, and speak 
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
Were open schools in which I daily read 
W ith most delight the passions of mankind. 
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, reveal'd; 
There saw into the depth of human souls, 
Souls that appear to have no depth at all 
To careless eyes. And — now convinced at heart 



M^:S AS THEY ARE MEif. 293 

How little those formalities, to wliich 

With overweening- trust alone we give 

The name of Education, have to do 

With real feeling and just sense ; how vain 

A correspondence with the talking "worJd 

Proves to the most; and call'd to make good search 

If man's estate, hy doom of Nature yoked 

With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance; 

If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 

And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 

I prized such walks still more, for there I found 

Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 

And steadiness, and healing and repose 

To every angry passion. There I heard. 

From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths 

Eeplete with honour ; sounds in unison 

With loftiest promises of good and fair. 

There are who think that strong affection, love 
Known by whatever name, is falsely deenrd 
A gift, to use a term which they would use. 
Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires 
Retirement, leisure, language purified 
By manners studied and elaborate ; 
That whoso feels such passion in its strength 
Must live within the very light and air 
Of courteous usages refined by art. 
True is it, where oppression worse than death 
Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
Of culture hath been utterly unknown. 
And poverty and labour in excess 
From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
Of the affections, and to Nature's self 
Oppose a deeper nature ; there, indeed. 
Love cannot be ; nor does it thrive with ease 
Amon^ the close and overcrowded haunts 
Of cities, w^here the human heart is sick, 
And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. — 
Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel 
How we mislead each other ; above all, 
How books mislead us, seeking their reward 
From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see 
By artificial lights ; how they debase 
The Many for the pleasure of those Few ; 
Effeminately level down the truth 
To certain general notions, for the sake 
Of being understood at once, or else 



294 WORDSWORTH. 

Through want of better knowledge in the heads 
That framed them ; flattering self-conceit with words 
That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
Whereby society has parted man 
From man, neglect the universal heart. 

Here, calling up to mind what then I saw, 
A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
In the familiar circuit of my home, 
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
To Nature, and the poAver of human minds, 
To men as they are men within themselves. 
How oft high service is perform'd within, 
When all th' external man is rude in show, — 
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 
Its simple worshippers from sun and snow. 
Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these. 
If future years mature me for the task, 
W^ill I record the praises, making verse 
Deal boldly with substantial things ; in truth 
And sanctity of passion, speak of these. 
That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
Where it is due : thus haply shall I teach, 
Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope ; my theme , 
'No other than the very heart of man. 
As found among the best of those who live, 
Not unexalted by religious faith. 
Nor uninform'd by books, good books, though few. 
In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight ; 
And miserable love, that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
Be't mine to follow with no timid step 
Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride 
That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 
Speaking no dream, but things oracular ; 
Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
W^ho to the letter of the outward promise 
Do read th' invisible soul; by men adroit 
In speech, and for communion with the world 
Accomplish'd ; minds whose faculties are then 
Most active when they are most eloquent. 
And elevated most when most admired. 



LOVE AND IMAGINATIOlf. 295 

Men may be found of other mould than these, 
Who are their own upholders, to themselves 
Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
There are among the walks of homely life 
Still higher, men for contemplation framed, 
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
Beneath them, summon'd to such intercourse : 
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power 
The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
When they are grasping with their greatest strength, 
They do not breathe among them : this I speak 
In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 
For His own service ; knoweth, loveth us, 
When we are unregarded by the world. 



LOYE AND IMAGINATION. 

(From the Prelude, Book xiv.) 

By love subsists 
All lasting grandeur, by pervading love ; 
That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the fields 
In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 
And Joyous creatures; see that pair, the lamb 
And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways 
Shall touch thee to the heart : thou call'st this love. 
And not inaptly so, for love it is, 
Far as it carries thee. In some green bower 
Best, and be not alone, but have thou there 
The One who is thy choice of all the world : 
There linger, listening, gazing, with delight 
Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 
Unless this love by a still higher love 
Be hallow'd, love that breathes not without awe ; 
Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer, 
By Heaven inspired ; that frees from chains the soul, 
Lifted, in union with the purest, best 
Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise 
Bearing a tribute to th' Almighty's Throne. 
This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist 
Without Imagination, which, in truth. 
Is but another name for absolute power 



296 WORDSWOKTH. 

And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
And Eeason in her most exalted mood. 
This faculty hath been the feeding source 
Of our long labour : we have traced the stream 
From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 
Its natal murmur ; f ollow'd it to light 
And open day ; accompanied its course 
Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
Lost sight of it bewilder'd and ingulf d ; 
Then given it greeting as it rose once more 
In strength, reflecting from its placid breast 
The works of man and face of human life ; 
And lastly, from its progress have we drawn 
Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 

Imagination having been our theme. 
So also hath that intellectual Love, 
For they are each in each, and cannot stand 
Dividually. — Here must thou be, Man ! 
Power to thyself ; no Helper hast thou here ; 
Here keepest thou in singleness thy state : 
No other can divide with thee this work : 
No secondary hand can intervene 
To fashion this ability ; 'tis thine, 
The prime and vital principle is thine 
In the recesses of thy nature, far 
From any reach of outward fellowship. 
Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
0, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid 
Here, the foundation of his future years ! 
For all that friendship, all that love can do. 
All that a darling countenance can look 
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man, 
Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen 
Up to the height of feeling intellect 
Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart 
Be tender as a nursing mother's heart ; 
Of female softness shall his life be full, 
Of humble cares and delicate desires. 
Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 

Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere 
Pour'd out for all the early tenderness 
Which I from thee imbibed :^ and 'tis most true 

8 See the short poem entitled The SparrouPs Nest, page 129. 



LOVE AND IMAGIIfATION-. 297 

That later seasons owed to thee no less ; 

For, spite of thj sweet influence and the touch 

Of kindred hands that open'd out the springs 

Of genial thought in childhood ; and in spite 

Of all that unassisted I had mark'd 

In life or nature of those charms minute 

That win their way into the heart by stealth ; 

Still, to the very going-out of youth, 

I too exclusively esteemed that love. 

And sought tliat beauty which, as Milton sings, 

Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften doAvn 

This over-sternness ; but for thee, dear Friend ! 

My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood 

In her original self too confident, 

Eetain'd, too long, a countenance severe ; 

A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds 

Familiar, and a favourite of the stars : 

But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 

Hang it w4th shrubs that twinkle in the breeze, 

And teach the little birds to build their nests 

And warble in its chambers. At a time 

When Xature, destined to remain so long 

Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 

Into a second j^lace, pleased to become 

A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 

TThen every day brought with it some new sense 

Of exquisite regard for common things. 

And all the Earth was budding with these gifts 

Of more refined humanity, thy breath. 

Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler Spring 

That went before my steps. Thereafter came 

One whom with thee friendship had early pair'd; 

She came, no more a phantom to adorn 

A moment,® but an inmate of the heart. 

And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 

To penetrate the lofty and the low ; 

Even as one essence of pervading light 

Shines in the brightest of ten thousand stars. 

And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp 

Couch'd in the dewy grass. 

9 See the little piece, beginning, '.' She was a Phantom, of delight," page 131. 



298 WORDSWORTH. 

THE EXCURSTOK 

PREFATORY NOTE. 

The Excursion, first published in 1814, was originally designed as the second part 
of a larger work, to consist of tiiree parts, and to be entitled The Recluse. The first and 
third parts of this work were never completed : in fact, only a small portion of the first 
— one book, I think — was Avritten; and nothing at all was done towards the third; 
though the author tells us that much, if not most, of the matter intended for that use was 
worked up into various of liis other poems. In ihe preface to the original edition.we have 
the following : " Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains, 
with the hope of being enabled to construct a literar}^ Work that might live, it was a 
reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far 
Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment; and the result was 
a determination to compose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, Nature, 
and Society; and to be entitled The Recluse; as having for its principal subject the 
sensations'aud opinions of a poet living in retirement." The same Preface informs 
us, also, that the first and third parts of The Ecclnse were to " consist chiefly of medi- 
tations in the Author's own person ; " while The Excursion, as will readily be seen, is 
cast into something of a dramatic form, with various interlocutors speaking in a man- 
ner suited to their respective characters. 

It may not be amiss to add, that The Excursion, on its first appearance, was re- 
ceived with many howls of censure by the professional critics and reviewers of that 
day. Jettrey, in particular, spouted against it in the Edinburgh Review, opening his 
article with'the dictum, " This will never do." But the poem held its ground, not- 
withstanding, and slowly won its waj', educating a "fit audience" for itself as 
time wore on ; and it has been steadily growing in favour and influence ever since. 
On the other hand, many of the best contemporary judges, such as Coleridge, 
Southey, Lamb, Wilson, and others, Avere from the first most emphatic and out- 
epoken in approval of the work. Southey, on being told how Jefl"rey was boasting 
that he had " crushed The Excursion," uttered the famous saying, " He crush 
The Excursion ! Tell him he might as well fancy that he could crush Skiddaw." 
Lamb, also, wrote, "It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read, — a day 
in Heaven." Again he speaks of it as follows : " The poet of The Excursion walks 
through comiuon forests as through some Dodona or enchanted wood; and every 
casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that miraculous one in Tasso, but in 
language more piercing than any articulate sounds, reveals to him far lovelier lays." 

To the original edition the author prefixed the following grand passage, from the 
first book of The Recluse, " as a kind of Prospectus of the design and scope of the 
whole Poem." 

0:n^ Man^, on JSTature, and on Human Life, 

Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 

Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 

Accompanied by feelings of delight 

Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mix'd ; 

And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 

And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 

Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 

The good and evil of our mortal state. 

To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. 

Whether from breath of outward circumstance. 

Or from the Soul, — an impulse to herself, — 

I would give utterance in numerous verse. 

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 

And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 

Of blessed consolations in distress ; 

Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 

Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 

Of th' individual Mind that keeps her own 

Inviolate retirement, subject there 



THE EXCURSIOlf. 299 

To Conscience only, and the law supreme 

Of that intelligence which governs all, — - 

I sing : " fit audience let me find, though few ! " 

So pray'd, more gaining than he ask'd, the Bard, 
In holiest mood.^ Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to Earth or dwell in highest Heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
Deep, — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
To which the Heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength, — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form, — 
Jehovah, with His thunder, and the choir 
- Of shouting Angels, and th' empyreal thrones, — 
I pass them unalarm'd. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scoop'd out 
By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, — 
My haunt, and the main region of my song. — 
Beauty — a living Presence of the Earth, . 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
From Earth's materials — waits upon my steps; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields, — like those of old 
Sought in th' Atlantic Main, — why should they be 
A history only of departed things, 
Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly Universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. — 
I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
Of this great consummation : and, by words 
Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
How exquisitely th' individual Mind 

1 Milton is the *• Bard " referred to. The quotation is from Paradise Lost, vii. 31 : 

" Still govern thou my song, 
Urania, and fit audience find, though few." 



300 WORDSWORTH. 

(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 

Of the whole species) to th' external World 

Is fitted ; — and how exquisitely, too, — 

Theme this but little heard of among men, — 

Th' external World is fitted to the Mind ; 

And the creation (by no lower name 

Can it be call'd) which they with blended might 

Accomplish : — this is our high argument. — 

Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 

Must turn elsewhere, — to travel near the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 

Of madding passions, mutually inflamed; 

Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 

Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 

Of sorrow, barricado'd evermore 

Within the walls of cities, — may these sounds 

Have their authentic comment ; that, even these 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 

Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 

The human Soul of universal Earth, 

Dreaming on things to come ; ^ and dost possess 

A metropolitan temple in the hearts 

Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 

A gift of genuine insight ; that my Son^ 

With star-like virtue in its place may shine. 

Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 

Itself, from all malevolent effect 

Of those mutations that extend their sway 

Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 

I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 

Contem23lated, describe the Mind and Man 

Contemplating ; and who and what he was, — 

The transitory Being that beheld 

This Vision ; when and where and how he lived ; — 

Be not this labour useless. If such theme 

May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power! 

Whose gracious favour is the primal source 

Of all illumination, may my Life 

Express the image of a better time. 

More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 

My Heart in genuine freedom: — all pure thoughts 

Be with me ; — so shall Thy unfailing love 

Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! 

2 So in Shakespeare's lOTth sonnet : 

" Not mine own fears, nor the projjhetic soul 

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come," &c. 



THE EXCURSION. 301 

BOOK FIEST. 



THE AYAXDEEER.3 

'TwAS Summer, and the Sun had mounted high : 

Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 

Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs,* 

In clearest air ascending, show'd far off 

A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 

From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 

Determined and unmoved, -with, steady beams 

Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 

To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 

Extends his careless limbs along the front 

Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 

A twilight of its own, — an ample shade 

Where the wren warbles, — while the dreaming man 

Half conscious of the soothing melody, 

With sidelong eye looks out upon the scene, 

By power of that impending covert thrown 

To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 

Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 

Under a shade as grateful I should find 

Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 

3 My lamented friend Southey used to say that, had he been a Papist, the course 
of life which in all probability would have been his was that of a Benedictine Monk, 
in a convent famished, as many once were, and some still are, with an inexhaustible 
libraiy. Books, as appears from many passages in his writings, and was evident to 
those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in tact Jus passion ; and 
waudering, I can with truth affirm, was mine : but this propensity in me was happily 
counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been 
born in a class "which would have deprived me of what iscalled a liberal education, 
it is not unlikelj" that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such 
as that in which my " Wanderer" passed the greater part of his days. At all events, 
I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented 
in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have be- 
come in his circumstances. Nevertheless much of what he says and does had an 
external existence, that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. 
An individual named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this 
humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. 
He married a kinsman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah spent part other chihlhood 
under this good man's eye. " My own imagination I was happy to find clothed in re- 
ality, and fresh ones suggesteci, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of 
heart, his sti-ong and pure "imagination, and his solid attainments in literature, chiefly 
religious, whether iu prose or verse. At Hawkshead, also, while I was a school- 
boy, there occasionally resided a packman, (the name then generally given to this 
calling.) with whom I "had frequent conversations upon Avhat had befallen him, and 
what he had observed during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much 
to each other: and upon the subject of Pedlarism in general, as then followed, and its 
favourableness to an intimate knowledge of human concerns, not merely among the 
humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in addition to what is to be 
found in The Excursion. — Author's Note's, 1843. 

4 Downs, in French dunes, are, properly, sand-banks. But in some parts of En- 
gland the word appears to be used for certain risings or swellings of earth, probably 
from their resemblance to sand-banks. 



302 WORDSWORTH. 

Across a bare wide Common * I was toiling 
With languid steps that by the slippery tiirf 
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm* disperse 
The host of insects gathering round my face, 
And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
The wish'd-for port to which my course was bound. 
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
Appeared a roofless Hut ; four naked walls 
That stared upon each other ! I look'd round, 
And to my wish and to my hope espied 
The Friend I sought, a Man of reverend age, 
But stout and hale, for travel unimpair'd. 
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
Eecumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I mark'd the day before, — alone 
And station'd in the public way, with face 
Turn'd toward the Sun then setting, while that staff 
Afforded, to the figure of the man 
Hetain'd for contemplation or repose, 
Graceful support : his countenance as he stood 
Was hidden from my view, and he remain'd 
Unrecognised ; but, stricken by the sight. 
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon , 
A glad congratulation we exchanged 
At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
He by appointment waited for me here, 
Under the covert of these clustering elms. 

We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
In th' antique market-village where was pass'd 
My school-time, an apartment he had own'd, 
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
And found a kind of home or harbour there. 
He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. 
As I grew up, it was my best delight 
To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
On holidays, we rambled through the woods; 
We sate, we walk'd ; he pleased me with report 
Of things which he had seen ; and often touch'd 

5 A common^ as the word is here used, is a piece of land, generally paBture, occu- 
pied by the people of a given neighborhood in common, as distinguished from lands 
owned exclusively by individuals. 



THE EXCURSIOi?^. 303 

Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 

Tnrn'd inward ; or at my request would sing 

Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 

A skilful distribution of sweet sounds. 

Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 

As cool refreshing water, by the care 

Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 

Through a parch 'd meadow-ground, in time of drought. 

Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse; 

How precious when in riper days I learn'd 

To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 

In the plain presence of his dignity ! 

0, many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ! men endow 'd with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine ; ® 
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
Of culture and th' inspiring aid of books, 
Or haply by a temper too severe, 
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame,) 
Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
By circumstance to take unto the height 
The measure of themselves, these favour'd Beings, 
All but a scatter'd few, live out their time. 
Husbanding that which they possess within. 
And go to til' grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
Are often those of whom the noisy world 
Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 
His graces unreveal'd and uuproclaim'd. 
But, as the mind was fill'd with inward light, 
So not without distinction had he lived. 
Beloved and honour'd, — far as he was known. 
And some small portion of his eloquent speech. 
And something that may serve to set in view 
The feeling pleasures of his loneliness. 
His observations, and the thoughts his mind 
Had dealt with, — I will here record in verse; 
Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 

6 This line has grown to be a sort of proverbial expression for the high gift of 
poetic genius. — Coleridge questions the truth of this line passage. •' Such sentiments," 
says lie, " in such language do one's heart good; tliough I, for my part, have not the 
fullest faith in the truth of the observation. When I find, even in situations the 
most favorable, according to Mr. Wordsworth, for the formation of a pure and poet- 
ical hmguage,— in situations which ensure familiarity with the grandest objects of 
the imagination — but one Burns among the shepherds of Scotland, and not a single 
poet of humble life among those of English lakes and mountains ; I conclude that 
Poetic Genius is not only a very delicate but a very rare plant." 



304 WORDSWORTH. 

The high and tender Muses shall accept 
With gracious smile, deliberately j^leased. 
And listening Time reward with sacred praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
Where, on a small hereditary farm. 
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt; 
A virtuous household, though exceeding poor. 
Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
And fearing God ; the very children taught 
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
And an habitual piety, maintained 
Witli strictness scarcely known on English ground. 

From his sixth year, tlie Boy of whom I speak, 
In Summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
But, through th' inclement and the perilous days 
Of long-continuing Winter, he repair d, 
Equipp'd with satchel, to a school, that stood 
Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge. 
Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
Of minster clock. From that bleak tenement 
He, many an evening, to his distant home 
In solitude returning, saw the hills 
Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
And travell'd through the wood, with no one near 
To whom he might confess the things he saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
In such communion, not from terror free, 
While yet a child, and long before his time. 
Had he perceived the presence and the power 
Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impress'd 
So vividly great objects that they lay 
Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
Perplex'd the bodily sense. He had received 
A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
With these impressions would he still compare 
All his remembrances, thoughts,- shapes, and forms; 
And, being still unsatisfied Avitli aught 
Of dimmer character, he thence attain'd 
An active power to fasten images 
Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 
Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 
While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 



THE EXCUKSIOK. 305 

On all things which the moving seasons brought 
To feed such appetite ; — nor tliis alone 
Appeased his yearning : in the after-day 
Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
He sate, and even in their fix'd lineaments. 
Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
Or by creative feeling overborne. 
Or by predominance of thought oppress'd, 
Even in their fix'd and steady lineaments 
He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
Expression ever varying ! 

Thus inform'd, 
He had small need of books ; for many a tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 
Xourish'd Imagination in her growth. 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
By which she is made quick to recognise 
The moral properties and scope of things. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, 
Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
The life and death of martyrs, who sustain'd, 
With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly display'd in records left 
Of persecution and the Covenant, — times 
Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour! 
And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends. 
Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire. 
Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbow' d, and lean-ankled too. 
With long and ghostly shanks, — forms which once seen 
Could never be forgotten ! 

In his heart. 
Where Fear sate thus a cherish'd visitant. 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diffused, or by the breathing air. 
Or by the silent looks of happy things. 
Or flowing from the universal face 
Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared. 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he 



306 WORDSWORTH. 

Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
To feel intensely cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy : but for the growing Youth, 
What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the Sun 
Eise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked, — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him : far and wide the clouds were touch'd. 
And in their silent faces could he read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form, 
All melted into him ; they swallow'd up 
His animal being ; in them did he live. 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffer'd no request ; 
Eapt into still communion that transcends 
Th' imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
0, then how beautiful, how bright, appear'd 
The written promise ! Early had he learn 'd 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did \\q feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life. 
And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
There littleness was not ; the least of things 
Seem'd infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saiu. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires. 
Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 
Lowly ; for he w^as meek in gratitude. 
Oft as he calTd those ecstasies to mind. 
And Avhence they flow'd ; and from them he acquired 
Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence he learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 



THE EXCURSION". 30? 

To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
Self -questioned where it did not understand. 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 

So pass'd the time ; yet to the nearest town 
He duly went with what small overplus 
His earnings might supply, and brought away 
The book that most had tempted his desires 
While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
He gazed upon that mighty orb of song. 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind. 
The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
The purer elements of truth involved 
.In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
(Especially perceived where nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed,) preserve the mind 
Busy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale. 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
In pensive idleness. What could he do. 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life. 
With blind endeavours ? Yet, still uppermost, 
Nature was at his heart as if he felt. 
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
In all things that from her sweet influence 
Miglit tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
^Tiile yet he linger d in the rudiments 
Of science, and among her simplest la\rs. 
His triangles, — they were the stars of heaven, 
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
To measure tli' altitude of some tall crag 
That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
Familiar with forgotten years, that shows, 
Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
The history of many a winter storm, 
Or obscure records of the path of fire. 

And thus, before his eighteenth year was told. 
Accumulated feelings press'd his heart 
With still increasing weight ; he was o'ei-power'd 
By Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope. 
And the first virgin passion of a soul 
Communing with the glorious universe. 



308 WOKDSWORTH. 

Full often wish'd he that the winds might rage 
When they were silent : far more fondly now 
Than in his earlier season did he love 
Tempestuous nights, — the conflict and the sounds 
That live in darkness. From his intellect 
And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
He ask'd repose ; and, failing oft to win 
The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
A cloud of mist, that smitten by the Sun 
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
And vainly by all other means, he strove 
To mitigate the fever of his heart. 

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
And every moral feeling of his soul 
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
The keen, the wholesome air of poverty. 
And drinking from the well of homely life. — 
But, from past liberty, and tried restraints. 
He now was summoned to select the course 
Of humble industry that promised best 
To yield him no unAvorthy maintenance. 
Urged by his Mother, he essay'd to teach 
A village-school; but wandering thoughts were then 
A misery to him ; and the Youth resign'd 
A task he w^as unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit who constrains 
The Savoyard to quit his native rocks. 
The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
(Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
Like their own steadfast clouds,) did now impel 
His restless mind to look abroad with hope. — 
An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load 
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest : 
Yet do such travellers find their own delight ; 
And their hard service, deem'd debasing now, 
Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. 



THE EXCURSION". 309 

Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 

Of his adventurous countiymen were led 

By perseverance in this track of life 

To competence and ease : — for him it bore 

Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 

His Parents on the enterprise bestow'd 

Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 

Foreboding evil. From his native hills 

He wander'd far; much did he see of men, 

Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 

Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 

Essential and eternal in the heart, 

That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 

Exist more simple in their elements. 

And speak a plainer language.^ In the woods, 

A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields. 

Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 

The better portion of his time ; and there 

Spontaneously had his affections thriven 

Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 

And liberty of Nature ; there he kept 

In solitude and solitary thought 

His mind in a just equipoise of love. 

Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 

Of ordinary life ; unvex'd, unwarp'd 

By partial bondage. In his steady course, 

No piteous revolutions had he felt, 

No wild varieties of joy and grief. 

7 In his original notes, the author remarks upon this passage as follows : " At 
the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I have ever been 
ready to pay homage to the aristocracj^ of nature; under a conviction that vigorous 
human-heartedness is the constitueut principle of true taste. It may still, however, 
be satisfactory to have prose testimony how far a Character, employed for purposes 
of imagination, is founded upon general fact." He then quotes the following from 
Heron's Jonrnen in Scotland : " We leam from Cjesar and other Koman Writers, that 
the travelling riierchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either 
newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Koman conquests, were 
ever the first to make the inhabitants of those counti'ies familiarly acquainted with 
the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them with an inclination to follow the Ro- 
man fashions, and to enjoy Roman conveniences. It is further to be observed, for 
the credit of this most useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by their 
personal manners, no less than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the 
people among whom they travel. " Having constant occasion to recommend them- 
selves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging attention, and the 
most insinuating address. 'As in their peregrinations they have opportunity of con- 
templating the manners of various men and various cities, they become eminently 
skilled in the knowledge of the world. As they wander, each alone, through thinly, 
inhabited districts, they fot-m habits of reflection and of sublime conteynplation. With all 
these qualifications,' no wonder that they should often be, in remote parts of the 
country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners; and should contribute 
much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our peasantry. It is not 
more than twenty or thirty vears since a young man going from any part of Scot- 
land to England, of purpose to cami the pack, was considered as going to lead the 
life and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in 
that honourable line of emplovment, he returned with bis acquisitions to his native 
country, he was regarded as a'gentleman to all intents and purposes." 



SIO WORDSWORTH. 

Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 

His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 

And constant disposition of his thoughts 

To sympathy with man, he was alive 

To all that was enjoy'd where'er he went, 

And all that was endured ; for, in himself 

Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness. 

He had no painful pressure from without 

That made him turn aside from wretchedness 

AVith coward fears. He could afford to suffer 

With those whom he saw suffer.' Hence it came 

That in our best experience he was rich, 

And in the wisdom of our daily life. 

For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 

He had observed the progress and decay 

Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 

The history of many families ; 

How they had prosper'd ; how they were o'erthrown 

By passion or mischance, or such misrule 

ximong th' unthinking masters of the earth 

As makes the nations groan. 

This active course 
He follow'd till provision for his wants 
Had been obtain'd : the Wanderer then resolved 
To pass the remnant of his days untask'd 
W^ith needless services, from hardship free. 
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild j^aths ; and, by the Summer's warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
That to his memory were most endear'd. — 
Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamp'd 
By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 

The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
Had watch'd him with an unrelenting eye. 
This he remember'd in his riper age 
With gratitude and reverential thoughts. 
But, by the native vigour of his mind. 
By iiis habitual wanderings out of doors. 
By loneliness and goodness and kind works. 



THE EXCUESIOlf. 311 

Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
Was melted all away : so true was this, 
That sometimes his religion seem'd to me 
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
Who to the model of his own i^ure heart 
Shaped his belief, as grace divme inspired, 
And human reason dictated with awe. — 
And surely never did there live on Earth 
A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
And teasing ways of children yex'd not him ; 
Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
To his fraternal sympathy address'd, 
Obtain reluctant hearing. 

Plain his garb ; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
Whom no one could liaye pass'd without remark. 
Active and nervous was his gate ; his limbs 
And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheek 
Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
But had not tamed his eye : that, under brows 
Shaggy and grey, had meaniugs which it brought 
From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 

So was He framed; and such his course of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils, 
Upon that cottage-beuch reposed his limbs, 
Screen'd from the Sun. Supine the Wanderer lay. 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut. 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose. 
And ere our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled, '' Tfs," said I, " a burning day : 
My lips are parch'd with thirst, but you, it seems. 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word. 



312 WORDSWORTH. 

Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 

The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out 

Upon the public way. It was a plot 

Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 

Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they pass'd- 

The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 

Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems 

In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 

The broken wall. I look'd around, and there, 

Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 

Join'd in a cold damp nook, espied a well 

Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 

My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot 

Withdrawing, straightway to the shade return'd 

Where sate the old Man on the cottage bench; 

And, while beside him, with uncover'd head, 

I yet was standing, freely to respire. 

And cool my temples in the fanning air, 

Thus did he speak : " I see around me here 

Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend ; 

Nor we alone, but that wdiich each man loved 

And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 

Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 

Even of the good is no memorial left. — 

The Poets, in their elegies and songs 

Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 

They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,^ 

And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 

In these their invocations, with a voice 

Obedient to the strong creative power 

Of human passion. Sympathies there are 

More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 

That steal upon the meditative mind. 

And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 

And eyed its waters till w^e seem'd to feel 

One sadness, they and I. Por them a bond 

Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 

When, every day, the touch of human hand 

Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 

In mortal stillness ; and they minister'd 

To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 

Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 

The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 

Green with the moss of years, and subject only 

To the soft handling of the elements : 

There let it lie, — how foolish are such thoughts ! 



THE EXCUESION". 313 

Forgive them; — never, never did my steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
As my own child. 0, Sir ! the good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks. 
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
From that forsaken spring ; and no one came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead, 
The light extinguish'd of her lonely hut. 
The hut itself abandoned to decay, "^ 
. And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 

I speak," continued he, " of One whose stock 
Of virtues bloom'd beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind. 
Tender and deep in her excess of love ; ® 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A Being who by adding love to peace 
Might live on Earth a life of happiness. 
Her wedded Partner lack'd not on his side 
The humble worth that satisfied her heart ; 
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
That he was often seated at his loom. 
In Summer, ere the mower was abroad 
Among the dewy grass, — in early Spring, 
Ere the last star had vanish'd. They who pass'd, 
At evening, from behind the garden fence 
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
After his daily work, until the light 
Had fail'd, and every leaf and flower were lost 
In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 
Was their best hope, next to the Ood in Heaven. 

Not twenty years ago, — but you I think 
Can scarcely "bear it now in mind, — there came 

8 The lines beginnings, " She was aAvomanof a steady mind," faithfully delineate, 
so far as they go, the character possessed in common by many women whom it has 
been mj'^ happiness to know in humble life ; and several of the most touching things 
which Margaret is represented as saying and doing arc taken from actual obserVa- 
tion of the distresses and trials under which diiierent persons were suffering ; some 
of them strangoi'S to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to 
have a distinct remembrance of the origin of the American war ; but the state in 
which I represent Robert's mind to be, I had frequent opportunities of observing at 
tlie commencement of our rupture with France in ndS.—Authoi^'s Notes,. 1843. 



314 WORDSWORTH. 

Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 

"With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 

A worse affliction in the plague of war : 

This happy Land was stricken to the heart ! 

A Wanderer then among the cottages, 

I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 

The hardships of that season : many rich 

Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; 

And of the poor did many cease to be, 

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 

To numerous self-denials, Margaret 

Went struggling on through those calamitous years 

With cheerful hope, until the second Autiunn, 

When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 

Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 

He lingered long ; and, when his strength returned. 

He found the little he had stored, to meet 

The hour of accident or crippling age. 

Was all consumed. A second infant now 

Was added to the troubles of a time 

Laden, for them and all of their degree. 

With care and sorrow : shoals of astisans 

From ill-requited labour turn'd adrift 

Sought daily bread from public charity. 

They, and their wives and children; happier far 

Could they have lived as do the little birds 

That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 

That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 

A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had fiU'd with plenty, and possessed in peace. 
This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks ; 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament ; and with a strange. 
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
Of Summer, Autumn, Winter, and of Spring. 
But this endured not ; his good humour soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was ; 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper: day by day he droop'd. 
And he would leave his work, and to the town 



THE EXCUESION". 315 

Would turn without an errand Ms slack steps ; 
Or wander here and there among the fields. 
One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He toss'd them with a false unnatural joy : 
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ^ Every smile/ 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
* Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the Wanderer paused ; 
And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace. 
This hour when all things which are not at rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
And in the weakness of humanity, 
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of Nature with our restless thoughts ? " 

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 

But, when he ended, there was in his face 

Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild. 

That for a little time it stole away 

All recollection ; and that simple tale 

Pass'd from my mind like a forgotten sound. 

Awhile on trivial things we held discourse, 

To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 

I thought of that poor Woman as of one 

Whom I had kno^vn and loved. He had rehearsed 

Her homely tale with such familiar power. 

With such an active countenance, an eye 

So busy, that the things of which he spake 

Seem'd present ; and, attention now relax'd, 

A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 

I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade. 

Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun. 

That had not cheer'd me long, — ere, looking round 

Upon that tranquil Ruin, I return'd. 

And begg'd of the old Man that, for my sake. 

He would resume his story. 

He replied, 



316 WORDSWOKTH. 

*' It Avere a wantonness, and would demand 

Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 

Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 

Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 

A momentary pleasure, never mark'd 

By reason, barren of all future good. 

But we have known that there is often found 

In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 

A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 

I am a dreamer among men, indeed 

An idle dreamer ! 'Tis a common tale, 

An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 

In bodily form. — But without further bidding 

I will proceed. 

While thus it fared with them 
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
To travel in a country far remote ; 
And when these lofty elms once more appeared 
What pleasant expectations lured me on 
O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reach'd 
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 
But, when I enter'd, Margaret look'd at me 
A little while ; then turn'd her head away 
Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair. 
Wept bitterly. 1 Avist not what to do, 
Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 
She rose from off her seat, and then, — Sir ! 
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : 
With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
Unutterably helpless, and a look 
That seem'd to cling upon me, she inquired 
If I had seen her husband. As she spake 
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 
Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
That he had disappear'd, — not two mouths gone. 
He left his house : two wretched days had past. 
And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth. 
Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
Within her chamber-casement she espied 
A folded paper, lying as if placed 
To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
She open'd, — found no writing, but beheld 
Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 



THE EXCURSIOlf. 317 

Silver and gold. ^ I shudder 'd at the sight,' 
Said Margaret, * for I knew it was his hand 
That must have placed it there ; and ere tliat day 
TTas ended, that long anxious day, I learn'd. 
From one who by my husband had been sent 
With the sad news, that he had join'd a troop 
Of soldiers, going to a distant land. — 
He left me thus, — he could not gather heart 
To take a farewell of me ; for he fear'd 
That I should follow with my babes, and sink 
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 

This tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
And, when she ended, I had little power 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
To cheer us both. But long we had not talk'd 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
And with a brighter eye she look'd around 
As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
We parted. — 'Twas the time of early Spring; 
I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd. 
And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
Call'd out, and sent a blessing after me. 
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
That seem'd the very sound of happy thoughts. 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
With my accustom'd load ; in heat and cold. 
Through many a wood and man}^ an open ground, 
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall ; 
My best companions now the driving winds, 
And now the ' trotting brooks ' and whispering trees. 
And now the music of my own sad steps. 
With many a short-lived thought that pass'd between. 
And disappear'd. 

I journey'd back this way, 
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass. 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seem'd, 
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch. 



318 WORDSWORTH. 

Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 
The yellow stone-crop, suffer'd to take root 
Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
Blinding the lower panes. I turn'd aside, 
And stroll 'd into her garden. It appear'd 
To lag behind the season, and had lost 
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
For the peculiar pains they had required, 
Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths aud bells, 
Had twined about her two small rows of peas. 
And dragg'd them to the earth. 

Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turn'd my restless steps ; 
A stranger pass'd ; and, guessing whom I sought, 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The Sun was sinking in the West ; and now 
I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self-still'd, 
The Yoice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
The spot, though fair, was very desolate, — 
The longer I remain'd, more desolate : 
And, looking round me, now I first observed 
The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discolour'd, and stuck o'er 
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep. 
That fed upon the Common, thither came 
Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
From these tall elms ; the cottage-clock struck eight ; 
I turn'd, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin ; her figure, too. 
Was changed. As she unlock'd the door, she said, 
* It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
But, in good truth, Fve wander'd much of late ; 
And sometimes — to' my shame I speak — have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
She told me — interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
That she had parted with her elder child ; 



THE EXCURSION-. 319 

To a kind master on a distant farm 
Now happily apprenticed. — ^ I perceive 
You look at me, and yon have cause : to-day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields I wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
And so I waste my time : for I am changed; 
And to myself,' said she, 'have done much wrong 
And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
"Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 
Have flow'd as if my body were not such 
As others are ; and I could never die. 
But I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
"Which I behold at home.' 

It would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
The story linger in my heart ; I fear 
'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
To that poor "Woman : — so familiarly 
Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
A momentary trance comes over me ; 
And to myself I seem to muse on One 
By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne away, 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come again 
For whom she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her : evermore 
Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes downward were cast ; 
And, when she at her table gave me food. 
She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
Her body was subdued. In every act, 
Pertaining to her house-affairs, appear'd 
The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd. 
But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
ISTo heaving of the heart. "While by the fire 
"We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 

Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
Eor her son's use, some tokens of regard. 



320 WORDSWORTH, 

Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek His helj^ by prayer. 
I took my staff, and, when I kiss'd her babe, 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
She thank'd me for my wish ; but for my hope 
It seem'd she did not thank me. 

I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping : she had learn'd 
'No tidings of her husband ; if he lived. 
She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the same 
In person and appearance ; but her house 
Besjoake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
Which, in the cottage- window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against the corner panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves, 
Lay scatter'd here and there, open or shut, 
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
And sigh'd among its playthings. I withdrew,- 
And once again entering the garden saw, 
More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
The harden'd soil, and knots of wither'd grass : 
No ridges there appear'd of clear black mould, 
No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
It seemed the better part were gnaw'd away 
Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 
Which had been twined about the slender stem 
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. — 
Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 
And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
She said, ^ I fear it will be dead and gone 
Ere Eobert come again.' When to the House 
We had return'd together, she inquired 
If I had any hope : — but for her babe 
And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
She had no wish to live, that she must die 



THE EXCUKSION. 321 

Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
Still in its place ; liis Sunday garments hung 
Upon the self -same nail ; his very staff 
Stood undisturb'd behind the door. 

And when. 
In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
She told me that her little babe was dead, 
And she was left alone. She now, released 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
Th' employment common through these wilds, and gained, 
By si3inning hemp, a pittance for herself ; 
And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy 
To give her needful help. That very time 
Most willingly she put her work aside. 
And walk'd with me along the miry road, 
Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted then, — 
Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere I return'd 
Into this tract again. 

Nine tedious years ; 
From their first separation, nine long years. 
She linger'd in unquiet widowhood ; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day ; 
And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
W^as busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey line ; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
Of the warm Summer, from a belt of hemp 
That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd 
A man whose garments show'd the soldier's red, 
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb. 
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from his task ; and she Avith faltex'ing voice 
Made many a fond inquiry ; and, when they 
Whose presence gave no comfort wei'e gone by, 
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 



322 WORDSWORTH. 

That bars the traveller's road she often stood, 

And, when a stranger horseman came, the latch 

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 

Most happy, if, from aught discover'd there 

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 

The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 

Sank to decay; for he was gone whose hand, 

At the first nipping of October frost, 

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 

Chequer'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 

Through the long Winter, reckless and alone ; 

Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain. 

Was sapp'd ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 

Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day' 

Her tatter'd clothes were ruffled by the wind, 

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 

Have parted hence ; and still that length of road. 

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endear'd, 

Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 

In sickness she remain'd; and here slie died; 

Last human tenant of these ruin'd walls ! " 

The old Man ceased ; he saw that I was moved ; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively 
I turn'd aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
Eeview'd that Woman's sufferings ; and it seem'd 
To comfort me while with a brother's love 
I bless'd her in the impotence of grief. 
Then towards the cottage I return'd ; and traced 
Fondly, though Avith an interest more mild, 
That secret spirit of humanity 
Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
Of Nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
And silent overgrowings, still survived. 
The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
" My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 
Nor more would she have craved as due to One 
Who, in her worst distress, had oft times felt 
Th' unbounded might of prayer ; and learn'd, with soul 
Fix'd on the Cross, that consolation springs 
From sources deeper far than deepest pain, 
For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read 
The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 



THE EXCUBSION. 323 

She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 

I well remember that those very plumes, 

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall. 

By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er, 

As once I pass'd, into my heart convey'd 

So still an image of tranquillity. 

So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful 

Amid th' uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind, 

That what we feel of sorrow and despair 

From ruin and from change, and all the grief 

That passing shows of Being leave behind, 

Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 

Nowhere, dominion o'er th' enlighten'd spirit 

Whose meditative sympathies repose 

Upon the breast of Faith. I turn'd away. 

And walk'd along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the Sun declining shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
Admonish'd thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies. 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasp'd his staff : 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reach'd 
A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 



BOOK SECOND. 



THE SOLITARY.^ 

In" days of yore how fortunately fared 

The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to hall. 

Baronial court or royal ; cheer'd with gifts 

Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise ; 

Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 

Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 

Of a clear brook ; beneath an abbey's roof 

9 Now for the Solitary. Not long after we took tip our abode at Grasmere, came 
to reside there a Scotchman, a little past the middle of life, who had for many years 



324 WORDSWORTH. 

One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next. 

Humbly in a religious hospital ; 

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; 

Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 

Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 

He walk'd, protected from the sword of war 

By virtue of that sacred instrument 

His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 

His dear companion wheresoe'er he went, 

Opening from land to land an easy way 

By melody, and by the charm of verse. 

Yet not the noblest of that honour'd Eace 

Drew happier, loftier, more impassion'd thouglits 

From his long journeyings and eventful life, 

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 

Of these our unimaginative days ; 

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 

Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 

And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
Look'd on this guide with reverential love ? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
Our journey, under favourable skies. 
Turn whersoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass, 
Earely a house, that did not yield to him 
Eemembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
Which Nature's various objects might inspire ; 
And in the silence of his face I read 
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun. 
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 

been chaplain to a Highland regiment. Of his former position I availed myself, to 
connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, 
the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected 
and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the be- 
ginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was a Mr. Fawcet, a preacher 
at a dissenting meeting-liouse at the Old Jewry. It happened to me several times to 
be one of his congregation through my connection Avith Mr. Nicholson, who, at a 
time when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite us to dine 
with him on Sundays; and I took the opportunity (3Ir. Nicholson being a dissenter) 
of going to hear Fawcet, who was an able and eloquent man. But his Christianity 
was probaoly never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like 
showy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French 
Revolution, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards pro- 
ducing it, and far more in canying it forward in its extremes. — Author's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCURSION. 325 

The fowl domestic, and the household dog, — 

In his capacious mind, he loyed them all : 

Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 

Oft was occasion given me to perceive 

How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 

To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 

How the poor hrute's condition, forced to run 

Its course of suffering in the public road. 

Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 

With unavailing pity. Kich in love 

And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 

To the degree that he desired, beloved. 

Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 

Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 

By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 

The Avelcome of an Inmate from afar. 

And I at once forgot I was a Stranger. — 

Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts. 

Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 

Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 

And sometimes — where the poor man held dispute 

With his own mind, unable to subdue 

Impatience through inaptness to perceive 

General distress in his particular lot ; 

Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 

Struggling against it ; with a soul perplex'd, 

And tin ding in herself no steady power 

To draw the line of comfort that divides 

Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 

From the injustice of our brother men — 

To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 

Who, with an understanding heart, allay'd 

The perturbation ; listen'd to the plea ; 

Ecsolved the dubious point; and sentence gave 

So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 

With soften'd spirit, even when it condemn'd. 

Such intercourse I witness'd, while we roved, 
Kow as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
Or both, with equal readiness of will. 
Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
Of accident. But when the rising Sun 
Had three times calFd us to renew our walk, 
My Fellow-traveller, Avith earnest voice. 
As if the thought were but a moment old, 
Claim- d absolute dominion for the day. 
We started, — and he led me toward the hills. 



326 WORDSWORTH. 

Up tlirougli an ample vale, with higher hills 

Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 

But, in the majesty of distance, now 

Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 

Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 

And beautified with morning's pui*ple beams. 

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
And they, if blest with wealth and hearts at ease, 
Shall lack not their enjoyment ; — but how faint 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side, 
Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
Pausing at will, — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 

Mount slowly, Sun ! that we may journey long, 
By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
'Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance. 
We saw a throng of people ; — wherefore met ? , 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrill'd ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake, 
Which the bright season favours. Tabor and pipe 
In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
The laggard Eustic ; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a parti-colour'd knot. 
Already f orm'd upon the village-green. — 
Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glisten'd upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and above. 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed. 
Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
Half-veil'd in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 



THE EXCURSION. o'Z7 

The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins ? " — He replied, '* Not loth 
To linger I would here with you partake, 
Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
By the fleet Eacers, ere the Sun be set, 
The turf of yon large pasture will be skimm'd ; 
There, too, the lusty AVrestlers shall contend: 
But know we not that he who intermits 
Th' appointed task and duties of the day 
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day, 
Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
A length of journey yet remains untraced: 
Let us proceed." Then, pointing with his staff 
Eaised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
He thus imparted : 

" In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, . 
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
From sight of One who lives secluded there. 
Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully collected from himself,) 
This brief communication shall suffice. 

Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a shelter'd and well-tended plant 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
Such grateful promises his youth display'd : 
And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
He to the Ministry was duly calFd ; 
And straight, incited by a curious mind 
Fill'd with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 
Of Chaplain to a military troop 
Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe, as they march'd 
In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 
This office filling, yet by native power 
And force of native inclination made 
An intellectual ruler in the haunts 
Of social vanity, he walk'd the world, 



328 WORDSWORTH. 

Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 
Lax, buoyant, — less a pastor with his flock 
Than a soldier among soldiers, — lived and roam' d 
Where Fortune led : and Fortune, who oft proves 
The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known 
A blooming Lad}', a conspicuous flower. 
Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
Whom he had sensibility to love, 
Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 

For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind 
Nor sparingly endoAv'd with worldly wealth, 
His ofiice he relinquished ; and retired 
From the world's notice to a rural home. 
Youth's season yet w4th him was scarcely past. 
And she was in youth's prime. Hov/ free their love, 
How full their joy ! till, pitiable doom ! 
In the short course of one undreaded year. 
Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
Two lovely Children, — all that they possess'd! 
The Mother follow'd. Miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he pray'd 
For his dismissal, day and night, compell'd 
To hold communion with the grave, and face 
With pain the regions of eternity. 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
To private interest dead, and public care. 

So lived he ; so he might have died. But now, 
To the wide world's astonishment, appear 'd 
A glorious opening, the unlook'd-for dawn, 
That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
Her voice of social transport reach'd even him. 
He broke from his contracted bounds, repair'd 
To the great City, an emporium then 
Of golden expectations, and receiving 
Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
Thither his popular talents he transferr'd ; 
And, from the pulpit, zealously maintain'd 
The cause of Christ and civil liberty. 
As one, and moving to one glorious end.^° 
Intoxicating service ! I might say 

10 The same fiilse identification, assumed as a first principle, has led many in our 
day to an utter repudiation of the Christian Faith. The cause of civil libei'ty, how. 
ever good in itself, is not the same as the cause of Christ; and to regard them as one 
cannot but prove a fatal source of error and confusion, — dangerous alike, perhaps, 
in the end, to both causes. 



THE EXCURSION^. 329 

A happy service ; for lie was sincere 

As yaiiity and fondness for applause, 

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound. 
For one hostility, in friendly league. 
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
Was served by rival advocates that came 
From regions opposite as Heaven and Hell. 
One courage seem'd to animate them all : 
And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 
By their united efforts, there arose 
A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
In the transcendent wisdom of the age. 
And her discernment ; not alone in rights, 
And in the origin and bounds of power 
Social and temporal ; but in laws divine. 
Deduced by reason, or to faith reveal'd. 
An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 
Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 
The strongest did not easily escape ; 
And He, what wonder? took a mortal taint. 
How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 
That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 
In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 
An infidel contempt of Holy Writ 
Stole by degrees upon liis mind ; and hence 
Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
Vilest hypocrisy, — the laughing, gay 
Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
Smooth words he had, to wheedle simple souls ; 
But, for disciples of the inner school, 
Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
The wisest whose opinions stoop'd the least 
To known restraints ; and who most boldly drew 
Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
That, in the light of false philosophy. 
Spread like a halo round a misty Moon, 
Widening its circle as the storms advance. 

His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
And every day and every place enjoj^d 
Th' unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
I do not wish to wrong him : though the course 
Of private life licentiously display'd 
Unhallow'd actions, — planted like a crown 



330 WORDSWORTH. 

Upon the insolent aspiring brow 

Of spurious notions, — worn as open signs 

Of prejudice subdued,^ — still he retained, 

'Mid much abasement, what he had received 

From Nature, an intense and glowing mind, 

Wherefore, when humbled liberty grew weak, 

And mortal sickness on her face appear' d, 

He coloured objects to his own desire 

As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 

Of pain were keen as those of better men, — 

Nay, keener, as his fortitude was less : 

And he continued, when worse days were come, 

To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 

Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 

That shew'd like happiness. But, in despite 

Of all this outside bravery, within. 

He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 

For moral dignity and strength of mind 

Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 

And reverence for himself ; and, last and best. 

Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 

Before whose sight the troubles of this world 

Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 

The glory of the times fading away, — 
The splendour, which had given a festal air 
To self-importance, hallow'd it, and veil'd 
From his own sight, — this gone, he forfeited 
All joy in human nature; was consumed, 
And vex'd, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
And fruitless indignation ; gall'd by pride ; 
Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 
Before his sight in power or fame, and won. 
Without desert, what he desired ; weak men. 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
With malady, — in part, I fear, provoked 
By weariness of life, — he fix'd his home, 
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance. 
Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
Steep'd in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not 

1 Scoffing at virtue, at her counsels and rewards, is not unfrequentlj^ taken up as 
a badge of " prejudice subdued." So some of the chiefs and leaders m the French 
Revolution openlv, and even ostentatiously, haunted the foulest coui'ts of vice ana 
profligacy, as evi'dence of their having outgrown the old superstitions of purity and pi- 
ety and seli-resti-aint. 



THE EXCURSIOI?^. 331 

Its own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at safe distance from ^ a world 
Not moving to his mind.' " 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. 
Diverging now, (as if his quest had been 
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
Of water, or some lofty eminence, 
Eenown'd for splendid prospect far and wide,) 
We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
A steep ascent ; and reach'd a dreary plain, * 
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill-tops 
Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs 
So placed, to be shut out from all the world ! 
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
With rocks encompass'd, save that to the south 
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close; 
A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
A liquid pool that glitter'd in the sun, 
And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no more ! 
It seem'd the home of poverty and toil. 
Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. 
There crows the cock, single in his domain : 
The small birds find in Spring no thicket there 
To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales 
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-tops, 
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 

Ah ! what a sweet Eecess, thought I, is here ! 
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains ; never one like this; 
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ; 
Not melancholy, — no, for it is green, 
And bright, and fertile, furnish'd in itself 



332 WORDSWORTH. 

With the few needful things that life requires. 
In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 
How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
We have an image of the pristine Earth, 
The planet in its nakedness : were this 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
First, last, and single, in the breathing world. 
It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
Or noAvhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
Of public news or private ; years that pass 
Forgetfully ; uncall'd upon to pay 
The common penalties of mortal life, 
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
In silence musing by my Comrade's side. 
He also silent ; when from out the heart 
Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
Or several voices in one solemn sound. 
Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and slow 
The cadence, as of psalms, — a funeral dirge ! 
We listeii'd, looking down upon the hut, 
But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
And now distinctly could I recognise 
These words : '' Shall in the grave thy love ie hnoiun. 
In death thy faithfulness ? " — " God rest his soul I " 
Said the old man,' abruptly breaking silence, — , 
" He is departed, and finds peace at last ! " 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band 
Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
They shaped their course along the sloping side 
Of that small valley, singing as they moved; 
A sober company and few, the men 
Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 
Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
Eecovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 
Methought, with apprehension that these rites 
Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
This day we purposed to intrude." — "I did so. 
But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 
Perhaps it is not he but some one else 
For whom this pious service is perf orm'd ; 
Some other tenant of the solitude." 



THE EXCURSION. 

So, to a steep and difficult descent 
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 
Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappear'd, 
I, more impatient in my downward course. 
Had landed upon easy ground; and there 
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When, behold 
An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
A narrow, winding entry open'd out 
Into a platform, that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 
And one old moss-grown wall; — a cool recess, 
. And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 
Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
To weather-fend a little turf -built seat 
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower ; 
But the whole plainly Avrought by children's hands ! 
Whose skill had throng'd the floor with a proud show 
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
Nor wanting ornament of walks between. 
With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaim 'd, 
" Lo ! what is here ? " and, stooping down, drew forth 
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
And wreck of parti-colour'd earthen-ware. 
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
One of those petty structures. " His it must be ! " 
Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be his. 
And he is gone ! " The book, which in my hand 
Had open'd of itself, (for it was swoln 
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
To the injurious elements exposed 
From week to week,) I found to be a work 
In the French tongue, a ^t^ovel of Voltaire, 
His famous Ojjtimist.^ "Unhappy Man ! " 
Exclaimed my Friend: "here, then, has been to him 
Eetreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 

2 I have no acquaintance with this work of Voltaire's ; and the word optimist has 
been so variously applied, that it is not easy to define. Perhaps ita sense may be 



334 WORDSWORTH. 

Within liow deep a shelter! He had fits, 

Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 

And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, 

Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 

Or sate companionless ; and here the hook. 

Left and forgotten in his careless way, 

Must by the cottage-children have been found : 

Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 

To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd 

This sad memorial of their hapless friend ! " 

" Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, to find 
Such book in such a place ! " — '' A book it is," 
He ansAver'd, "to the Person suited well. 
Though little suited to surrounding things : 
'Tis strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
To see the Man who own'd it, dwelling here. 
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world ! 
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away. 
As from these intimations I forebode, 
Grieved shall I be, — less for my sake than yours, 
And least of all for him who is no more." 

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; 
And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn : " The lover," said he, " doomed 
To love when hope hath fail'd him, whom no depth 
Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of liair. 
And that is joy to him. When change of times 
Hath summon'd kings to scaffolds, do but give 
The faithful servant, who must hide his head 
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, 
And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 
Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
Must that man have been left who, hither driven, 
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen. 
Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
Harden'd by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
To tax you with this journey; " mildly said 

best gathered from a passage in Coleridge's Table Talk : " Always believing in the 
government of God, I was a iQY\a.\\t optimist. But, as I could not but see that the 
present state of things was not the best, I was necessarily led to look forward to a 
future state." Some optimists, however, deny, in eflect, the existence of moral 
evil, and hold the course of this world to be so good, that no other is needed for the 
consummations of goodness. 



THE EXCUESIOK. 335 

My venerable Friend, as forth we stepp'd 
Into the presence of the cheerful light ; 
" For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
From moving spectacles; — but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
For full in view, approaching through a gate 
That open'd from th' enclosure of green fields 
Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
I kncAV from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
Not rustic, — dull and faded like himself! 
He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
Of red ripe currants ; * gift by which he strove. 
With intermixture of endearing words. 
To soothe a Child, who walk'd beside liim, weeping 
As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
" To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain ; 
His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." ^ 

More miglit have foUow'd ; but my honoured Friend 
Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
That flash'd and sparkled from the otlier's eyes; 
He was all fire : no shadow on his brow 
Remain'd, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
Hands' join'd he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 
An eager grasp ; and many moments' space — 
AVhen the first glow of pleasure was no more. 
And, of the sad appearance which at once 
Had vauish'd, much was come and coming back — 
An amicable smile retain'd the life 
Which it had unexpectedly received. 
Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 
" Nor could your coming have been better timed ; 
For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge," — 
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 

3 •* Red ripe currants " the first week iu May ! Further on, we shall have ripe 
whortleberries also. Instances, doubtless, of *' poetical license." 

4 This is a natural touch of character. The infidel Solitary must needs lapse from 
his propriety the moment he undertakes to console a little child sorrowing over the 
grave. 



336 WORDSWORTH. 

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child, — 

"A little mourner, whom it is my task 

To comfort ; — but how came ye ? — if yon track 

(Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 

Conducted hither your most welcome feet. 

Ye could not miss the funeral train, — they yet 

Have scarcely disappeared." — " This blooming Child," 

Said the old Man, " is of an age to weep 

At any grave or solemn spectacle. 

Inly distressed or overpower'd with awe, 

He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to-day 

Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears ; you also 

Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death, 

He answer'd, " has been here ; but could not well 

Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 

Upon mj'Self." — Tlie other left these words 

Unnoticed, thus continuing : 

" From yon crag, 
Down whose steep sides we dropp'd into the vale, 
We heard the hymn they sang, — a solemn sound 
Heard anywhere ; but in a place like this 
'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
And customs of our rural ancestry 
Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 
Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 
Stood still, though but a casual passenger. 
So much I felt the awfulness of life, 
In that one moment when the corse is lifted 
In silence, with a hush of decency ; 
Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
And confidential yearnings, towards its home. 
Its final home on Earth. What traveller — who — 
(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
A mute procession on the houseless road ; 
Or passing by some single tenement 
Or cluster'd clwellings, where again they raise 
The monitory voice ? But most of all 
It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 
Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd to dust. 
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 
Upon the shoulders of the next in love. 
The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
Beside the cofiin, resting on its lid 



THE EXCUESIOK. 337 

In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint,^ 
And that most awful scripture which declares 
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
Have I not seen — ye likewise may have seen — 
Son, husband, brothers, — brothers side by side, 
And son and father also side by side, — 
Rise from that posture, and in concert move, 
On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight. 
From which they do not shrink, and under which 
They faint not, but advance towards tli' open grave 
Step after step, together, with their firm 
. Unhidden faces : he that suffers most, 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! — 
0, blest are they who live and die like these. 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" 

" That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, " must be deem'd, I fear, 
Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy Winters hath he lived, and, mark ! 
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, 
And I shall miss him ; — scanty tribute ! yet. 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
AVithout a hand to gather it." 

At this 
I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
" Can it be thus among so small a band 
As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for love," 
Answer'd the sick Man with a careless voice, 
" That I came hither; neither have I found 
Among associates who have power of speech, 
Nor in such other converse as is here. 
Temptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 

5 Referring to the ninetieth Psalm, which is used in the Burial Service of the 
Church of England. 



338 WORDSWORTH. 

Then, speaking in like careless sort, lie said 

To my benign Companion, " Pity 'tis 

That fortune did not guide you to this house 

A few days earlier; then would you have seen 

What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, 

That seems by nature hollow'd out to be 

The seat and bosom of pure innocence. 

Are made of ; — an ungracious matter this ! 

Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 

Of past discussions with this zealous friend 

And advocate of humble life, I now 

Will force upon his notice ; undeterr'd 

By the example of his own pure course. 

And that respect and deference which a soul 

May fairl}^ claim, by niggard age enrich'd 

In what she most doth value, love of Grod 

And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 

I talk, — and ye are standing in the sun 

Without refreshment I " 

Quickly had he spoken. 
And, with light steps still quicker than his words. 
Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reach'd the door, 
Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
Than it appear 'd when from the beetling rock 
We had look'd down upon it. All within. 
As left by the departed company. 
Was silent ; save the solitary clock 
That on mine ear tick'd with a mournful sound. 
Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs 
And reach'd a small apartment dark and low. 
Which was no sooner enter'd than our Host 
Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell. 
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will, — 
I love it better than a snail his house. 
But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 
So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
Left one day mistress of her mother's stores. 
He went about his hospitable task. 
My eyes were busy, and my thoug'hts no less. 
And pleased I look'd upon my grey-hair'd Friend, 
As if to thank him ; he return'd that look, 
Cheer'd, plainly, and yet serious. Wliat a wreck 
Had we about us ! scatter'd was the floor. 
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf. 



THE EXCUBSIO]!^. 339 

With books, maps, fossils, witliei*'d plants and flowers. 
And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 
Lay intermix'd with scraps of paper, some 
Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
And shatter'd telescope, together link'd 
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
And instruments of music, some half-made. 
Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.* 
But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 
By which it had been bleach'd, overspread the board ; 
. And was itself half-cover'd with a store 

Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; 

And cakes of butter curiously emboss'd, 

Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 

A golden hue, delicate as their own 

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 

Nor lack'd, for more delight on that warm day, 

Our table small parade of garden fruits. 

And whortleberries from the mountain side. 

The Child, who long ere this had still'd his sobs, 

Was now a help to his late comforter. 

And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, ' 

Ministering to our need. 

In genial mood. 
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
Fronting the window of that little cell, 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on tAvo huge Peaks, 
That from some other vale peer'd into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaim'd our host, *' if here 
It were your lot to dwell, would soon become 
Your prized companions. Many are the notes 
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores; 
And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
In the wild concert, — chiefly when the storm 
Kides high : then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow. 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 

6 Some of the Solitaiy's traits of character are charmingly suggested in this in- 
rentoiy of his room. The passage ahvays reminds me of Scott's delightful portrait- 
xire of Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck's sanctum in The Antiquary, which was published in 
1816. 



340 WOKDSWOETH. 

Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; 
And, in the grim and breathless hour oC noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
The thunder's greeting. Nor have Nature's laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice : the clouds, 
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither, — touch, 
And have an answer, — thither come, and shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
And idle spirits : there the Sun himself, 
At the calm close of Summer's longest day. 
Rests his substantial orb : between those heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle. 
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — alone 
Here do I sit and watch." 

A fall of voice, 
Regretted like the nightingale's last note, 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture, 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
" Now for the tale with which you threaten'd us ! " — 
" In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
For my excuse. Dissever'd from mankind, 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seem'd 
When ye look'd down upon us from the crag, 
Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea. 
We are not so : perpetually we touch 
Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 
And he whom this our cottage hath to-day 
Relinquish'd lived dependent for his bread 
Upon the laws of public charity. 
The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 
As might from that occasion be distill'd, 
Open'd, as she before had done for me, 
Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 
The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 
Which appetite required ; a blind dull nook, 
Such as she had, the kennel of his rest! 
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 



THE EXCURSION. 341 

The still conteiitedness of seventy years. 

Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 

Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 

Winningly meek or A'enerably calm, 

Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 

A penalty, if penalty it were. 

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 

I loved the old Man, for I pitied him. 

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 

With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, 

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 

Mild, inoffensive, ready in Ms way, 

And helpful to his utmost power : and there 

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed I . 

He was her vassal of all labour, till'd 

Her garden, from the pasture fetch'd her kine ; 

And, one among the orderly array 

Of hay-makers, beneath the burning Sun 

Maintain'd his place ; or heedf ully pursued 

His course, on errands bound, to other vales. 

Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 

Too young for any profitable task. 

So moved he like a shadow that joerform'd 

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 

For what reward ! The Moon her monthly round 

Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 

Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 

Into my little sanctuary rush'd, — 

Voice to a rueful treble humanised. 

And features in deplorable dismay. 

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 

It is most serious : persevering rain 

Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 

Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides : 

This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend — 

Who at her bidding, early and alone, 

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 

For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 

Return'd not, and now, haply, on the heights 

Lay at the mercy of tliis raging storm. 

* Inhuman ! ' said I ; ^ was an old Man's life 

Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas! 

This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 

Her husband enter, — from a distant vale. 

We sallied forth together ; found the tools 



342 WORDSWORTH. 

Which the neglected veteran had dropp'd, 
But through all quarters look'd for him in vain. 
We shouted, — but no answer ! Darkness fell 
Without remission of the blast or shower, 
And fears for our own safety drove us home. 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess. 
The moment I was seated here alone, 
Honour my little cell with some few tears 
Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, 
With morning we renew'd our quest : the wind 
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
Ltiy shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
And loilg and hopelessly we sought in vain ; 
'Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
A heap of ruin, almost without walls 
And wholly without roof, (the bleach'd remains 
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 
The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
To meet for worship on that central height,) 
We there espied the object of our search. 
Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
And there we found him breathing peaceably. 
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
We spake, — he made reply, bnt would not stir 
At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.^ 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved 
Through the dull mist, I following ; when a step, 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view 
Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! 
Th' appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
Was of a mighty city, — boldly say 

7 The account given by the Solitary, in all that belongs to the character of the Old 
Man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quit- 
ting the vale on the road to Ambleside; the character of the hostess, and all that be- 
fell the poor man upon the mountain, belongs to Paterdale. The Avoman I knew 
well; and she v/as exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, 
among which the man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge 
that divides Paterdale fi'om Boardale and Martindale; having been placed there for 
the convenience of both districts. — Author's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCUESION". 34S 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 

Far sinking into splendour, — without end ! 

Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold. 

With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted ; liere, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars, — illumination of all gems ! 

By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapours had receded, taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

0, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf. 

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 

Molten together, and composing thus, 

Each lost in each, that marvellous array 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 

In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapp'd. 

Eight in the midst, where interspace appear'd 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Under a shining canopy of state 

Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use, 

But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 

In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious awe.* 

This little Yale, a dwelling-place of Man, 

Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible, — 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That which I saiu was the reveal'd abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 

Sweird in my breast. ' I have been dead,' I cried, 

' And now I live ! ! wherefore do I live ? ' 

And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! — 

But I forget our Charge, as utterly 

I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed : 

The apparition faded not away, 

The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains was de- 



344 WORDSWORTH. 

And I descended. — Haying reached the house, 

I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 

And in serene possession of himself, 

Beside a fire whose genial warmth seem'd met 

By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 

Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 

Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly 

"Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 

And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 

That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 

But, though he seem'd at first to have received 

No harm, and uncomplaining as before 

"Went though his usual tasks, a silent change 

Soon show'd itself: he linger'd three short weeks; 

And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
That it is ended." At these words he turn'd, 
And, with blithe air of open fellowship. 
Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
Like one who would be merry. Seeing this. 
My grey-hair'd Friend said courteously, " Nay, nay. 
You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
Eose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 



BOOK THIRD. 



DESPONDENCY. 



A HUMMING bee, a little tinkling rill, 

A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, 

In clamorous agitation, round the crest 

Of a tall rock, their airy citadel, — 

By each and all of these the pensive ear 

Was greeted, in the silence that ensued. 

When through the cottage-threshold we had pass'd. 

And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood 

Once more beneath the concave of a blue 

And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaim'd our Host, 

Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 

The shade of discontent which ou his brow 

Had gather'd, " Ye have left my cell, — but see 

scribed partly from what my friend, Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed 
upon this melancholy occasion, and partly trom what Mrs. Wordsworth and I had 
seen, in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont, above Hartshope Hall, on 
our way from Paterdale to Amhleside. — Author's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCUBSIO^". 345 

How Xature hems you in with friendly arms ! 

And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 

But which way shall I lead you ? liow contrive 

In spot so parsimoniously endow'd, 

That the brief hours which yet remain may reap 

Some recompense of knowledge or delight ? '' 

So saying, round he look'd, as if perplex'd ; 

And, to remove those doubts, my grey-hair*d Friend 

Said, '' Shall we take this pathway for our guide ? 

Upward it winds, as if, in sumuier heats, 

Its line had first been fashion'd by the flock 

Seeking a place of refuge at the root 

Of yon black Yew-tree, whose jH-otruded boughs 

Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 

From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 

There in commodious shelter may we rest. 

Or let us trace this streamlet to its source : 

Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, 

And a few steps may bring us to the spot 

Where, haply, crown'd with flowerets and green herbs. 

The mountain infant to the sun comes forth, 

Like human life from darkuess.'' — A quick turn 

Through a strait jDassage of encumber'd ground 

Proved that such hope was vain : for now we stood 

Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 

And saw the water, that composed this rill, 

Descending, disembodied, and diffused 

O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag. 

Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 

All further progress here was barr'd. And who, 

Thought I, if master of a vacant hour. 

Here would not linger, willingly detain' d ? 

Whether to such wild objects he were led 

When copious rains have magnified the stream 

Into a loud and white-robed waterfall. 

Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

L^pon a semicirque of turf-clad gi'ound, 
The hidden nook discover'd to our view 
A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
A stranded ship, with keel upturn'd, that rests 
Fearless of ^inds and waves. Three several stones 
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
To monumental pillars : and, from these 
Some little space disjoin'd, a pair were seen, 
That with imited shoulders bore aloft 



346 WOBDS WORTH. 

A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appear'd 
A tall and shining holly, that had found 
A hospitable chink, and stood upright. 
As if inserted by some human hand 
In mockery, to wither in the sun. 
Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze. 
The first that enter'd. But no breeze did now 
Find entrance : high or low appear'd no trace 
Of motion, save the water that descended. 
Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 
And softly creeping, like a breath of air. 
Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, 
To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

" Behold a cabinet for sages built. 
Which kings might envy ! " — Praise to this effect 
Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip ; 
Who to the Solitary turn'd, and said, 
" In sooth, with love's familiar privilege. 
You have decried the wealth which is your own. 
Among these rocks and stones, methinks I see 
More than the heedless impress that belongs 
To lonely Nature's casual work : they bear 
A semblance strange of power intelligent. 
And of design not wholly worn away. 
Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind. 
How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth > 
From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 
Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
That in these shows a chronicle survives 
Of purposes akin to those of Man, 
But wrought with mightier arm. than now prevails. 
Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf 
With timid lapse ; and, lo ! while in this strait 
I stand, the chasm of sky above my head 
Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 
Or to pass through; but rather an abyss 
In which the everlasting stars abide ; 
And whose soft gloom and boundless depth might tempt 
The curious eye to look for them by day. — 
Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
Rear'd by th' industrious hand of human art 
To lift thee high above the misty air 
And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; 
From academic groves, that have for thee 



THE EXCUKSION^. 347 

Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 

To which thou mayst resort for holier peace, — 

From whose calm centre thou, through height or depth, 

Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead ; 

Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 

Of time and conscious nature disappear, 

Lost in unsearchable eternity ! " 

A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
We scann'd the various features of the scene : 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
With courteous voice thus spake : 

" I should have grieved 
Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach. 
If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
- Leaving this nook unvisited : hut, in sooth, 
Your unexpected presence had so roused 
My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise ; 
And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
Or, shall I say ? disdain' d, the game that lurks 
At my own door. The shapes before our eyes 
And their arrangement, doubtless must be deem'd 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Eudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone, 
From Fancy, willing to set oif her stores 
By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style 
My Theban obelisk ; and, there, behold 
A Druid cromlech ! ® — thus I entertain 
The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of things. 
Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
But, if the spirit be oppress'd by sense 
Of instability, revolt, decay, 

And change, and emptiness, these freaks of !N'ature, 
And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
To quicken, and to aggravate, — to feed 
Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
Confines the slirill-voiced whirlwind round and round 
Eddying within its vast circumference, 

9 Cromlech is the name given to certain rude old structures, in which several 
stones are placed u}3right, and a large flat stone laid upon them; found in countries 
formerly inhabited by the Celts, and supposed to be the remains of druidical altars. 



348 WORDSWORTH. 

On Sarnm's naked plain ; ^ than pyramid 

Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved ; 

Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 

Above tlie sandy desert, in the light 

Of Sun or Moon. — Forgive me, if I say 

That an appearance which hath raised your minds 

To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 

Different effect producing) is for me 

Fraught rather with depression than delight. 

Though shame it were, could I not look around. 

By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 

Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you 

With your bright transports fairly may be deemed. 

The w^andering Herbalist, who, clear alike 

From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts. 

Casts, if he ever chance to enter here. 

Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 

Of transitory interest, and peeps round 

For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant 

Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 

Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won : 

Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound 

By soul-eugrossing instinct driven along 

Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 

Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 

E'er is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 

Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 

By scars which his activity has left 

Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven ! 

This covert nook reports not of his hand,) 

He who Avith pocket-hammer smites the edge 

Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 

In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 

With her first growths, detaching by the stroke 

A chip or splinter, — to resolve his doubts ; 

And, with that ready answer satisfied. 

The substance classes by some barbarous name, 

And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 

1 Sarum is an old contraction of Salisburij. and the plain so named is the largest 
piece of level surface in England. Formerly it was a lonely, dismal, weird place, 
and is still noted for its antiquities handed down from prehistoric times; chief of 
which is the " huge Pile " here spoken of, a vast monument or mound composed of 
earth and stones. Wordsworth elsewhere describes it as a " fabric of mysterious 
form," where " winds meet in conflict, each by turns supreme." There he laid the 
Bcene of one of his early poems, called Guilt and Sorrow, in which we have the follow- 
ing: 

" Pile of Stone-henge ! so proud to hint j-et keep 
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and iiear 
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 
Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; " &c. 



THE EXCURSIOif. 349 

His specimen, if but liaply intervein'd 

With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 

Lurk in its cells, — and thinks himself enrich' d. 

Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before I 

Intrusted safely each to his pursuit. 

Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 

Eange ; if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 

The mind is full, — and free from pain their pastime." 

" Then," said I, interposing, " One is near, 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
Place worthier still of envy. May I name, 
Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy ? 
Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form,^ 
Youngest apprentice in the school of art ! 
- Him, as we enter'd from the open glen. 
You might have noticed, busily engaged — 
Heart, soul, and hands — in mending the defects 
Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 
Eaised for enabling this penurious stream 
To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
For his dehght, — the happiest he of all ! " 

" Far happiest," answer'd the desponding Man, 
" If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
Ah ! what avails imagination high 
Or question deep ? Avhat profits all that earth, 
Or heaven's blue vault, is suffer'd to put forth 
Of impulse or allurement, for the Sonl 
To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
Far as she finds a yielding element 
In past or future ; far as she can go 
Through time or space, — if neither in the one, 
ISTor in the other region, imm- in aught 
That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things. 
Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds. 
Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
A habitation, for consummate good. 
Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
Can be attain'd, — a better sanctuary 
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ? " 

"Is this," the grey-hair'd Wanderer mildly said, 
" The voice, which we so lately overheard. 
To that same child addressing tenderly 
The consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
' His body is at rest, liis soul 171 ffeave^i.' 

2 In the English schools, form is used for class. Tlie word grew into such use 
from being applied to the benches on which the pupils sat. 



350 WORDSWOKTH. 

These were your words ; and, verily, methinks 
Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar." 

The Other, not displeased, 
Promptly replied, " My notion is the same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of inquisition whence we rise. 
And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become. 
Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. 
Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of worthier explanation, say at once 
With the American (a thought which suits 
The place where now we stand) that certain men 
Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
And these were the first parents of mankind : 
Or, if a different image be recall'd 
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf. 
Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
As sound ; — blithe race ! whose mantles were bedeck'd 
With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
But stop! — these theoretic fancies Jar 
On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos draw 
Their holy Ganges from a skyey fount, 
Even so deduce the stream of human life 
From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust. 
That our existence winds her stately course 
Beneath the Sun, like Granges, to make part 
Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulf d, 
Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
And utter darkness; — thought which may be faced," 
Though comfortless ! 

Not of myself I speak ; 
Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
By philosophic discipline prepared 
For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find, 
Revievnng my past way, much to condemn. 
Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 



THE EXCURStOK. 351 

That scarcely seem to have belong'd to me,) 
If I must take my choice between the pair 
That rule alternately the weary hours, 
Night is than day more acceptable; sleep 
Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 

Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
That in more genial times, when I was free 
To explore the destiny of human kind, 
(Not as an intellectual game pursued 
With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed,) 
I did not rank with those — too dull or nice, 
For to my judgment such they then appear'd. 
Or too aspiring, thankless at the best — 
Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
An object whereunto their souls are tied 
In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er. 
From me, those dark impervious shades that hang 
Upon the region whither we are bound 
Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse 
O'er what from eldest time we have been told 
Of your bright forms aad glorious faculties, 
And with th' imagination rest content, 
Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 
The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
By flowers embellish'd, and by springs refresh'd. — 
* Blow, winds of Autumn ! let your chilling breath 
Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 
The shady forest of its green attire ; 
And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
The gentle brooks ! Your desolating sway. 
Sheds,' I exclaim' d, ^no sadness upon me, 
And no disorder in your rage I find. 
What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 
How rich in animation and delight. 
How bountiful these elements, compared 
With aught, as more desirable and fair, 



352 WORDSWORTH. 

Devised by fancy for the golden age ; 

Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 

In Arcady,^ beneath unaltered skies, 

Through the long year in constant quiet bound, 

Night hush'd as night, and day serene as day ! ' — 

But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know, 

Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 

To anticipate the privilege of Age. 

From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 

Of better entertainment: — let us hence!" 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
To be diyerted from our present theme, 
I said, " My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours, 
Would push this censure^ further: for, if smiles 
Of scornful pity be the just reward 
Of Poesy thus courteously employ'd 
In framing models to improve the scheme 
Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
Why should not grave Philosophy be styled. 
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
Establish sounder titles of esteem 
For her who (all too timid and reserved 
For onset, for resistance too inert. 
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
Placed, among flowery gardens curtain'd round 
With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood 
Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
The ends of being would secure, and win 
The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
Tranquillity to all things. Or is she,'' 
I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power 
Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
Of admiration, and all sense of joy ? " 

His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
Accorded little with his present mind ; 
I ceased, and he resumed: "Ah! gentle Sir, 
Slight, if you will, the mecms; but spare to slight 
The end of those who did, by system, rank. 
As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 

3 Referring to the ancient Greek Arcadia, where the fabled golden age had its 
principal seat. See page 242, note 7. 

4 Censure here is opinion or judgment ; the old meaning of the word. Very often so 
in Shakespeare. 



THE EXCUKSIOls^. 353 

Security from shock of accident, 

Kelease from fear; and cherish'd peaceful days 

For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 

And only reasonable felicity. 

What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 

Through a long course of later ages, drove, 

The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 

Or what detain'd him, till his closing eyes 

Took their last farewell of the Sun and stars. 

Fast anchor'd in the desert ? — Not alone 

Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse. 

Wrongs unredress'd, or insults unavenged 

And unavengeable, defeated pride. 

Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 

Friendship betray'd, affection unreturn'd, 

Love with despair, or grief in agony ; — • 

Not always from intolerable pangs 

He fled ; but, compass'd round by pleasure, sigh'd 

For independent happiness ; craving peace, 

The central feeling of all happiness. 

Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 

A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 

But for its absolute self ; a life of peace. 

Stability without regret or fear; 

That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! 

Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life 

There, where on fcAV external things his heart 

AVas set, and those his own; or, if not his. 

Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 

What other yearning was the master-tie 
Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
Aerial, or in green secluded vale. 
One after one, collected from afar, 
An undissolving fellowship ? What but this, 
The universal instinct of repose. 
The longing for confirm'd tranquillity. 
Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime ? 
The life where hope and memory are as one; 
Where earth is quiet, and her face unchanged 
Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
Or season's difference ; the immortal Soul 
Consistent in self-rule ; and Heaven reveal'd 
To meditation in that quietness ! — 
Such was their scheme : and, tliough the wish'd-for end 
By multitudes was miss'd, perhaps attain'd 
By none, they for th' attempt, and pains employed, 



354 WORDSWORTH. 

Do, ill my present censure, stand redeem'd 
From tlie unqualified disdain, that once 
Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
Delivering her decisions from the seat 
Of forward youth ; that scruple^ not to solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
To overweening faith ; and is inflamed. 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
Hostility, — how dreadful when it comes, 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 

A child of Earth, I rested, in that stage 
Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
Upon Earth's native energies ; forgetting 
That mine was a condition which required 
Nor energy nor fortitude, — a calm 
Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
I might have even been tempted to despise. 
But no, — for the serene was also bright ; 
Enliven'd happiness with Joy o'erflowing. 
With joy, and^O, that memory should survive 
To speak the word! — with rapture; Nature's boon. 
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
Above what rules can teach or fancy feign ; 
Abused, as all possessions are abused 
That are not prized according to their worth. 
And yet, what worth ? what good is given to men. 
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven? 
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ? 
None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
In solitude ; and mutually address'd 
From each to all, for wisdom's sake. This truth 
The priest announces from his holy seat : 
And, crown'd with garlands in the summer grove. 
The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gain'd 
Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
That the prosperities of love and joy 
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
tremble ! ye, to whom hath been assign'd 
A course of days composing happy months, 
And they as happy years ; the present still 



THE EXCURSlOiq^. 355 

So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 

Of a congenial future, that the wheels 

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 

For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 

And slighted Hope luill be avenged ; and, when 

Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not ; 

But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony ! " 

This was the bitter language of the heart : 
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice. 
Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
To a proficient of the tragic scene 
Standing before the multitude, beset 
With dark events. Desirous to divert 
Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts. 
We signified a wish to leave that place 
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
That seem'd for self-examination made ; 
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt 
He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 
And on that couch inviting us to rest. 
Full on that tender-hearted Man he turn'd 
A serious eye, and thus his speech renew'd : 

" You never saw, your eyes did never look 
On the bright form of Her whom once I loved : 
Her silver voice was heard upon the Earth, 
A sound unknown to you ; else, honour'd Friend ! 
Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
Of what I sufller'd, when I wept that loss. 
And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
That I remember, and can weep no more. 
Stripp'd as I am of all the golden fruit 
Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
Of self-reproach familiarly assail'd ; 
Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness 
But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
Upon my naked branches. Lively thoughts 
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words : 
I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
Too much of frailty hath already dropp'd ; 
But that too much demands still more. 

You know. 
Revered Compatriot, — and to you, kind Sir, 
(Not to be deem'd a stranger, as you come 



356 WORDSWORTH. 

Following the guidance of these welcome feet 

To our secluded vale,) it may be told, — 

That my demerits did not sue in vain 

To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 

AVith hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride, — 

In the devotedness of youthful love. 

Preferring me to parents and the choir 

Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 

And all known places and familiar sights, 

(Eesign'd with sadness gently weighing down 

Her trembling expectations, but no more 

Than did to her due honour, and to me 

Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 

In what I had to build upon,) — this Bride, 

Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 

To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 

Where the salt sea innocuously breaks. 

And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 

On Devon's leafy shores; — a shelter'd hold, 

In a soft clime encouraging the soil 

To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 

Approach th' embower'd abode, — our chosen seat, — 

See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 

The unendanger'd myrtle, deck'd with flowers. 

Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 

While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood, 

Not overlook'd but courting no regard. 

Those native plants, the holly and the yew. 

Gave modest intimation to the mind 

How willingly their aid they would unite 

With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 

Of Winter, and protect that pleasant place. — 

Wild were the walks upon the lonely Downs, 

Track leading into track ; how mark'd, how worn 

Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse. 

Winding away its never ending line 

On their smooth surface, evidence was none: 

But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 

A range of unappropriated earth, 

W^here youth's ambitious feet might move at large; 

Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 

The shining giver of the day diffuse 

His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 

Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ; 

As our enjoyments, boundless. From those heights 



THE EXCUBSIOK. 357 

We dropp'd, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; ^ 
Where arbours of impenetrable shade, 
And mossy seats, detain'd us side by side. 
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
* That all the grove and all the day was ours.' 

happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
For Nature call'd my Partner to resign 
Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
Enjoy'd by us in common. — To my hope. 
To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
There could I meditate on follies past ; 
And, like a weary voyager escaped 
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt. 
And self-indulgence, — without shame pursued: 
There, undisturb'd, could think of and could thank 
Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
Eule and restraint, — my guardian, — shall I say 
That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe, — 
Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
Strains follow'd of acknowledgment address'd 
To an Authority enthroned above 
The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source, 
Proceed all visible ministers of good 
That walk the earth, — Father of Heaven and Earth, 
Father, and king, aud judge, adored and fear'd! 
These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
By observation, transient as the glance 
Of flying sunbeams, or to th' outward form 
Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 
As the mute insect fix'd upon the plant 
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
Endear'd my wanderings ; and the mother's kiss 
And infant's smile awaited my return. 

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair. 
Companions daily, often all day long ; 
Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 

5 Comb, sometimes spelt coombe, is that portion of a valley which forms its contin- 
uation beyond and above the highest spring that issues from it. The -word, so far 
as I know, is never used thus in this country. 



358 WORDSWORTH. 

Beyond th' allowance of our own fire-side, 

The twain within our happy cottage born, 

Inmates, and heirs of our united love; 

Graced mutually by difference of sex. 

And with no wider interval of time 

Between their several births than served for one 

To establish something of a leader's sway ; 

Yet left them join'd by sympathy in age ; 

Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 

On these two pillars rested as in air 

Our solitude. 

It soothes me to perceive. 
Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
Attentive audience. But, gentle Friends! 
As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
Though, for a nation, times of blessedness. 
Give back faint echoes from th' historian's page; 
So, in th' imperfect sounds of this discourse, 
Depress'd I hear how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
What special record can, or need, be given 
To rules and habits whereby much was done, 
But all within the sphere of little things ; 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares. 
And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
Advance, swerving not from the path prescribed; 
Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
Maintain'd with faithful care. And you divine 
The worst effects that our condition saw, 
If you imagine changes slowly w^rought. 
And in their progress unperceivable ; 
Not wish'd for; sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
(Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring,) 
Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 
And loveliness endear 'd which they removed. 

Seven years of occupation undisturb'd 
Establish'd seemingly a right to hold 
That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
To what an alien spirit had acquired 
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
I lived and breathed ; most grateful, — if to enjoy 
Without repining or desire for more. 
For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
(Only except some impulses of pride 
With no determined object, though upheld 



THE EXCUESIOK. 359 

By theories with suitable support,) — 
Most grateful, if in such wise to en joy- 
Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once, 
From some dark seat of fatal power was urged 
A claim that shattered all. Our blooming girl. 
Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time 
To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
Her cheek to change its colour, was convey'd 
From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
Of living man, though longing to pursue. 
With even as brief a warning, — and how soon. 
What with short interval of time between, 
I tremble yet to think of, — our last prop, 
Our happy life's only remaining stay. 
The brother follow'd; and was seen no more! 
Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds 
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky. 
The Mother now remained ; as if in her. 
Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed. 
This second visitation had no power 
To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
And to establish thankfulness or heart 
In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
The space that sever'd us ! But, as the sight 
Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
That consolation may descend from far, 
(And that is intercourse and union too,) 
While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
And, with a holier love inspired, I look'd 
On her, — at once superior to my woes 
And partner of my loss. — heavy change ! 
Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
Insensibly ; — th' immortal and divine 
Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory. 
As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
Into a gulf obscure of silent grief 
And keen heart-anguish, — of itself ashamed. 
Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
And, so consumed, she melted from my arms. 



360 WOEDSWOKTH. 

And left me, on this Earth, disconsolate ! 

What followed cannot be review'd in thought; 
Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
And all the tender motions of the soul, 
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand, — 
Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
I call'd on dreams and visions to disclose 
That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
Imploringly; look'd up, and ask'd the Heavens 
If Angels traversed their cerulean floors. 
If fix'd or wandering star could tidings yield 
Of the departed spirit, — what abode 
It occupies, — what consciousness retains 
Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 
Turn'd inward, to examine of what stuff 
Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put 
To inquisition, long and profitless. 
By pain of heart — now check'd, and now impell'd— 
The intellectual power, through words and things. 
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 
Some trace am I enabled to retain 
Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
Only by records in myself not found. 

From that abstraction I was roused, — and how ? 
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 
With all the chambers in its horrid towers. 
Fell to the ground ; — by violence overthrown 
Of indignation ; and with shouts that drown'd 
The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 
A golden palace rose, or seem'd to rise, 
Th' appointed seat of equitable law 
And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 
I felt ; the transformation I perceived. 
As marvellously seized as in that moment 
When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 
Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth. 
Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease; 
Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? 



THE EXCURSION. 361 

Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 

The tree of Liberty/ — My heart rebounded; 

My melancholy voice tlie chorus join'd : 

* Be Joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 

Ye that are capable of joy, be glad ! 

Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 

In others ye shall promptly find ; and all, 

Enrich'd by mutual and reflected wealth. 

Shall with one heart, honour their common kind.' 

Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
Society became my glittering bride. 
And airy hopes my children. Erom the depths 
Of natural passion seemingly escaped. 
My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things. 
As they exist, in mutable array, 
Upon life's surface. What though in my veins 
There flow'd no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 
In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
Of amity whose living threads should stretch 
Beyond the seas and to the farthest pole. 
There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
And acclamation, crowds in open air 
Express'd the tumult of their minds, my voice 
There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves. 
Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 
Eeturn'd, — a progeny of golden years 
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem: 
I felt their invitation ; and resumed 
A long-suspended office in the House 
Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 
Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
The admiration winning of the crowd; 
The help desiring of the pure devout. 

Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! 
But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
How rapidly the zealots of the cause 



362 WORDSWORTH. 

Disbanded, or in hostile ranks appear'd ; 

Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone. 

Disgusted therefore, or appall'd, by aims 

Of fiercer zealots : so confusion reign'd, 

And the more faithful were compelPd to exclaim. 

As Brutus did to Virtue, * Liberty, 

I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade 1' 

Such recantation had for me no charm, 
Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved 
At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
Of a conclusion or catastrophe. 
Why, then, conceal that, when the simply good 
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
Other support, not scrupulous whence it came ; 
And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
Enough if notions seem'd to be high-pitch'd. 
And qualities determined. — Among men 
So character'd did I maintain a strife 
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
But, in the process, I began to feel 
That, if th' emancipation of the world 
Were miss'd, I should at least secure my own. 
And be in part compensated. For rights. 
Widely — inveterately usurp'd upon, 
I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
All that Abstraction furnish'd for my needs 
Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
And propagate, by liberty of life. 
Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced. 
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 
Eor its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
Which I had trod in happiness and peace. 
Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
That, in a struggling and distemper'd world. 
Saw a seductive image of herself. 
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
Is still the sport ! Here nature was my guide. 
The nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 

fostering Nature 1 I rejected, — smiled 
At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 

At those which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
From my unguarded heart. The tranquil shores 
Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 

1 might have been entangled among deeds. 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor, — 
Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relish'd 



THE EXCURSION". 363 

Strangely th' exasperation of that Land 
Which turn'd an angry beak against the down 
Of her own breast; confounded into hope 
Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 

But all Avas quieted by iron bonds 
Of military sway. The shifting aims, 
The moral interests, the creative might. 
The varied functions and high attributes 
Of civil action yielded to a power 
Formal, and odious, and contemptible. — 
In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 
The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
. Once more did I retire into myself. 
There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er th' Atlantic Main 
The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 
And who among them but an Exile, freed 
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
Among the busily-employ'd, not more 
With obligation charged, with service tax'd. 
Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
Upon the tall mast streaming ? But, ye Powers 
Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
And, in the blank and solitude of things, 
Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength. 
Will conscience prey. Feebly must they have felt 
Who, in old time, attired with snakes and w^hips 
The vengeful Furies. Beaidiful regards 
Were turn'd on me, — the face of her I loved ; 
The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
From unknown objects I received ; and those. 
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
That volume — as a compass for the soul — 



364 WOEDSWOETH. 

Revered among the nations. I implored 
Its guidance ; but th' infallible support 
Of faith was wanting. Tell mo, why refused 
To One by storms annoy'd and adverse winds ; 
Perplex'd with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 
Of vain endeavours tired ; and by his own, 
And by his nature's, ignorance, dismay'd ! 

Long-wish'd-f or sight, the Western World appeared ; 
And, when the ship was moor'd, I leap'd ashore 
Indignantly, — resolved to be a man 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
No longer in subjection to the past. 
With abject mind, — from a tyrannic lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured : 
So, like a fugitive, whose feet have clear'd 
Some boundary, which his followers may not cross 
In prosecution of their deadly chase. 
Respiring I look'd round. — How bright the Sun, 
The breeze how soft ! Can any thing produced 
In the Old World compare, thought I, for power 
And majesty with this gigantic stream. 
Sprung from the desert ? And, behold, a city 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As he desires that they should be, whom Avinds 
And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
In the condition of a damaged seed, 
Whose fibres cannot, if they Avould, take root. 
Here may I roam at large ; — my business is. 
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel. 
And therefore not to act, — convinced that all 
Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
Beginning, ends in servitude, — still painful, 
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say. 
On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
Appear 'd, of high pretensions, unreproved 
But by th' obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
Which a detach'd spectator may regard 
Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
Quick change of objects: and, to laugh alone, 
At a composing distance from the haunts 
Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
As choice as musing Leisure can bestow; 
Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn. 



THE EXCURSION. 9^ 

Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 

Of all unsocial courses is least fit 

For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 

That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 

Into vexation. 

Let us, then, I said, 
Leave this unknit Eepublic® to the scourge 
Of her own passions ; and to regions haste, 
Whose shades have never felt th' encroaching axe, 
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
So far, and of his old inheritance 
So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause. 
More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
True, the intelligence of social art 
Hath overpower'd liis forefathers, and soon 
Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
But contemplations, wortliier, nobler far 
Than her destructive energies, attend 
His independence, when along the side 
Of Mississippi, or that northern stream 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, 
* And his innate capacities of soul, 

There imaged : or when, having gain'd the top 
Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Eegions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
Expanse of unappropriated earth. 
With mind that sheds a light on what he sees ; 
Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun, 
Pouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a living and rejoicing world! 

So, westward, toward th' unviolated woods 
I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
Faird not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
(The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 

6 It should be borne in mind that this was written as early as 1814; at which time 
the United States might well appear to AVordswortli, or even to such a man as the 
Solitary, an " unknit llepubLic." Not more unknit, however, than many of our own 
people supposed it to be, or than it would have proved, if "Secession" had had its 
way. But recent events have either shown our National Government to be strong, 
or nave made it so. 



366 WOKDSWORTH. 

Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
I sympathised at leisure with the sound : 
But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
I found him not. There, in his stead, appear'd 
A creature squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
Eemorseless, and submissive to no law 
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

Enough is told ! Here am I ; — ye have heard 
What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
What from my fellow-beings I require, 
And either they have not to give, or I 
Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost, 
Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
Upon this visible fabric of the world. 
May be divined, — perhaps it hath been said: 
But spare your pity, if there be in me 
Aught that deserves respect : for I exist. 
Within myself, not comfortless. — The ten our 
Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook 
In some still passage of its course, and seen. 
Within the depths of its capacious breast. 
Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky ; 
And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 
Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse,- 
Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 
Else imperceptible. Meanwhile is heard 
A sof ten'd roar, or murmur ; and the sound. 
Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 
With the same pensive office ; and make known 
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
Precipitations, and untoward straits, 
The earth-born wanderer hath pass'd ; and quickly, 
That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 
In the best quiet to her course allow'd ; 
And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
That my particular current soon will reach 
Th' unfathomable gulf, where all is still ! " 



THE EXCUBSIOIT. 367 

BOOK FOURTH. 



DESPOISTDEKCY COERECTED. 

Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
His mournful narrative, — commenced in pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without peace ; 
Yet temper'd, not unfrequently, with strains 
Of native feeling, grateful to our minds ; 
And yielding surely some relief to his. 
While we sate listening with compassion due. 
A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
The Wanderer said : 

" One adequate support 
Eor the calamities of mortal life 
Exists, — one only; — an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is order'd by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. — 
The darts of anguish /a; not where the seat 
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
For time and for eternity ; by faith. 
Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of His perfections ; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
To the dishonour of His holy name. — 
Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost aJffections unto Thee and Thine ! " 
Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
To heaven : " How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fix'd 
At Thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
Human and rational, report of Thee 
Even less than these ? Be mute who will, who can. 
Yet I will praise Thee with impassion'd voice: 
My lips, that may forget Thee in the crowd, 



368 WORDSWORTH. 

Cannot forget Thee here, where Thou hast built, 

For Thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 

Me didst Thou constitute a priest of Thine, 

In such a temple as we now behold 

Eeared for Thy presence : therefore am I bound 

To worship, here and everywhere, — as one 

Not doom'd to ignorance, though forced to tread, 

From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 

From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 

And from debasement rescued. By Thy grace 

The particle divine remain'd unquench'd ; 

And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 

Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, 

From Paradise transplanted : wintry age 

Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; 

If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! — 

Come labour, when the worn-out frame requires 

Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want. 

And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 

But leave me unabated trust in Thee, — 

And let Thy favour, to the end of life, 

Inspire me with ability to seek 

Eepose and hope among eternal things, — 

Father of Heaven and Earth ! and I am rich. 

And will possess my portion in content. 

And what are things eternal ? — Powers depart," 
The grey-hair'd Wanderer steadfastly replied, > 
Answering the question which himself had ask'd, 
" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
Duty exists ; — immutably survive. 
For our support, the measures and the forms 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 
Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. 
Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart 
Do, with united urgency, require, 

What more that may not perish ? — Thou, dread source, 
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 
That in the scale of being fill their place ; 
Above our human region, or below. 
Set and sustain'd; Thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that Thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Mightst hold, on Earth, communion undisturb'd; 



THE EXCUKSIOK. 369 

"Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Eestor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone 
Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits 
Which Thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration Thou endur'st ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of Thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pare intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and power) 
Even to Thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
This universe shall pass away, — a work 
Glorious, because the shadow of Thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 
Ah ! if the time must come in which my feet 
ISTo more shall stray where meditation leads. 
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
Loved haunts like these ; the unimprison'd Mind 
May yet have scope to range among her own, 
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
If the dear faculty of sight should fail. 
Still it may be allow'd me to remember 
What visionary powers of eye and soul 
In youth were mine ; when, station'd on the top 
Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld 
The Sun rise up, from distant climes return'd 
Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day. 
His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 
Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 
Attended : then my spirit was entranced 
With joy exalted to beatitude ; 
The measure of my soul was fill'd with bliss, 
And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 
With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 
Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags 
Through sinful choice, or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed. 
'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise ; but, to converse with Heaven, — 
This is not easy : — to relinquish all 



370 WOKDSWOETH. 

We have, or liope, of happiness and joy, 

And stand in freedom loosen'd from this world, 

I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 

That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 

Conceptions equal to the soul's desires; 

And the most difficult of tasks to heep 

Heights which the soul is competent to gain. - — 

Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 

Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 

Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke. 

That with majestic energy from earth 

Rises ; but, having reach'd the thinner air, 

Melts and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 

From this infirmity of mortal kind 

Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at least, 

If grief be something hallow'd and ordain'd, 

If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 

Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 

Is it enabled to maintain its hold 

In that excess which conscience disapproves. 

For who could sink and settle to that point 

Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 

As long and perseveringiy to mourn 

For any object of his love removed 

From this unstable world, if he could fix 

A satisfying view upon that state 

Of pure, imperishable blessedness 

Which reason promises, and Holy Writ 

Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 

Is of such incapacity, methinks, 

No natural branch \ despondency far less ; 

And, least of all, is absolute despair. — 

And, if there be whose tender frames have droop'd 

Even to the dust; apparently, through weight 

Of anguish unreliev'd, and lack of power 

An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 

Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 

When wanted most ; a confidence impair'd 

So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 

With bodily eyes, they are borne doAvn by love 

Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 

no! the innocent Sufferer often sees 

Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 

To realise the vision, with intense 

And over-constant yearning ; — there — there lies 

Th' excess by which the balance is destroy'd. 



THE EXCURSION. 371 

Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 

Tliis Adtal warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 

Though inconceivably endow'd, too dim 

For any passion of the soul that leads 

To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 

Along the line of limitless desires. 

I, speaking now from such disorder free, 

Nor rapt nor craving, but in settled peace, 

I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 

Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 

From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In mercy, carried infinite degrees 

Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power. 

That finds no limits but her own pure will. 

Here, then, we rest ; not fearing for our creed 
The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach. 
That, though immovably convinced, we want 
Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
As soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
Alas ! th' endowment of immortal power 
Is match'd unequally with custom,^ time, 
And domineering faculties of sense 
In all ; in most with superadded foes, 
Idle temptations ; open vanities, 
Ephemeral offspring of th' unblushing world ; 
And, in the private regions of the mind, 
Ill-govern'd passions, ranklings of despite, 
Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 
Distress, and care. What then remains? — To seek 
Those helps for his occasions ever near 
Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renew'd 
On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer, — 
A stream which, from the fountain of the heart 
Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
Without access of unexpected strength. 
But, above all, the victory is most sure 

7 The effect of custom in dulling or dimming the finer moral perceptions of the 
soul is set forth more fully in the Author's Ode on Immortality. See pages 246-8. 



372 WORDSWORTH. 

For him wlio, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
To yield entire submission to the law 
Of conscience, — conscience reverenced and obey'd, 
As God's most intimate presence in the soul, 
And His most perfect image in the world. . — 
Endeavour thus to live; these rules regard; 
These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 
Shall then be yours among the happy few 
Who dwell on Earth, yet breathe empjTcal air, 
Sons of the morning. For your nobler part. 
Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains. 
Doubt shall be quelFd and trouble chased away ; 
With only such degree of sadness left 
As may support longings of pure desire ; 
And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
Pour'd forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 
A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
By Nature's care from wreck of scatter'd stones. 
And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
Smooth and commodious; as a stately deck 
Which to and fro the mariner is used 
To tread for pastinie, talking with his mates. 
Or haply thinking of far-distant friends. 
While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 
Stillness prevail'd around us : and the voice 
That spake was capable to lift the soul 
Toward regions yet more tranquil. But methought 
That he, whose fix'd despondency had given 
Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 
Was less upraised in spirit than abash'd ; 
Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
The Sage continued : 

" For that other loss, 
The loss of confidence in social man. 
By th' unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high, that every thought which looked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the kind 
To many seem'd superfluous ; as no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 



THE EXCUESION. 373 

Exist ; ^ so none is now for fix'd despair ; 

The two extremes are equally disown'd . > 

By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one .^ '^•, 

You have been driven far as its opposite, ^ ^^ 

Between them seek the point whereon to build 'f^%>^ ' 

Sound expectations. So doth he advise 'i^ 9^^ 

Who shared at first th' illusion ; but was soon '^ %• 

Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks ' K'^ 

Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fiel . 

Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speakiii 

To th' inattentive children of the world: 

* Vain-glorious Generation ! what new pov; / 

On you have been conferr'd ? Avhat gifts,. , iiield 

From your progenitors, have ye received^ ^ ' " 

Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 

Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 

For you should undergo a sudden change ; 

And the weak functions of one busy day, 

Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 

What all the slowly-moving years of time, 

With their united force, have left undone ? 

By Nature's gradual processes be taught ; 

By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 

Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit 

Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 

Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 

Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 

Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 
That visionary voice ; and, at this day, 
When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations ; when the impious rule, 
By will or by establish'd ordinance, 
Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
Prevents me not from owning that the law 
By which mankind now suffers is most Just. 
For by superior energies ; more strict 
Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 

8 At the time here referi'ed to, England, and still more France, abounded in men 
BO carried away with the enthusiasm of visionary progress as to believe that no aims 
or aspirations looking beyond the present worm were needed for the support of hu- 
man virtue. So confident were they of their own illumination, that they expected, 
if they could but have their way, to project a heaven upon eai'th from their own 
swelling breasts. But this is a favorite conceit with the extreme radicals of all 
times. On the other side, Coleridge happily remarks, " it is only from celestial ob- 
servations that good teiTCStrial chax'ts can be constmicted." 



374 WORDSWORTH. 

In their unliallow'd principles ; the bad 
Have fairly earn'd a victory o'er the weak, 
The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait, in hope 
To see the moment when the righteous cause 
Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
As they who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 
WilJi ti) her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
TIt.o dw^ not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
By iiof tise of her own ethereal zeal. 
That Isenct only can redeem mankind; 
And wBhalj^.hat sacred spirit shall appear, 
Then shly siur triumph be complete as theirs. 
Yet, should^'his confidence prove vain, the wise 
Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
* Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
Those revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all th' aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man ! ' • 

Happy is he who lives to understand 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each ; and where begins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings ; 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
To every class its station and its office. 
Through all the mighty commonwealth of things ; 
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 
Such converse, if directed by a meek. 
Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love: 
For knowledge is delight ; and such delight 
Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
It teaches less to love than to adore; 

9 This quotation is from a very noble poem by Samuel Daniel, addressed to the 
Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland; and the last two lines are translated by 
him from Seneca. The poem contains an admirable picture of a wise man's state of 
mind in a time of public commotion; too long, however, to be quoted here. 



THE EXCURSIOl^. 375 

If that be not indeed the highest love ! " 

"Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
" The dignity of life is not impair'd 
By aught that innocently satisfies 
The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 
Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 
Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
And such benign affections cultivates 
Among th' inferior kinds ; not merely those 
That he may call his own, and which depend, 
As individual objects of regard, 
Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 
But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
And solitude, that they do favour most. 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain. 
These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
Th' obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 
Are not unfelt; and much might recommend, 
How much they might inspirit and endear. 
The loneliness of this sublime retreat ! " 

" Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
" If, with the fro ward will and grovelling soul 
Of man, offended, liberty is here. 
And invitation every hour renew'd. 
To mark their plaoid state who never heard 
Of a command which they have power to break. 
Or rule which they are tempted to transgress : 
These, with a soothed or elevated heart. 
May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
Complacence there. But wherefore this to you? 
I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
The redbreast, ruffled up by Winter's cold 
Into a ' feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand 
A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
For the small wren to build in; — not in vain. 
The barriers disregarding that surround 
This deep abiding -place, before your sight 
Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and soars. 
Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers, 
Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 



376 WORDSWORTH. 

Drawn towards her native firmament of Heaven, 
When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
Upborne, at evening, on replenish'd wing, 
This shaded valley leaves; and leaves the dark 
Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
A proud communication with the Sun 
Low sunk beneath th' horizon ! — List ! -- 1 heard, 
Erom yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth 
As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
Again !" — Th' effect upon the soul was such 
As he express'd : from out the mountain's heart 
The solemn voice appear'd to issue, startling 
The blank air ; for the region all around 
Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
Save for that single cry, th' unanswer'd bleat 
Of a poor lamb, — left somewhere to itself. 
The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
lie paused, as if unwilling to proceed. 
Through consciousness that silence in such place 
Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
But soon his thoughts return'd upon themselves. 
And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed : 

" Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
Perchance too lightly occupied, or lull'd 
Too easily, despise or overlook 
The vassalage that binds her to the Earth, 
Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
The trepidations of mortality. 
What place so destitute and void, but there 
The little flower her vanity shall check; 
The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 

These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds. 
Does that benignity pervade that warms 
The mole contented with her darksome walk 
In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny creatures strong by social league ; 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills, 
- Their labour, cover'd, as a lake with waves ; 
Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 
Kor wanting here, to entertain the thought. 
Creatures that in communities exist. 
Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 



THE EXCURSIOK. 377 

Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 

Than by participation of delight 

And a strict Ioyc of fellowship, combined. 

What other spirit can it be thaL prompts 

The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 

Their sports together in the solar beam. 

Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 

More obviously the self -same influence rules 

The feather'd kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive flock. 

The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 

Hovering above these inland solitudes, 

By the rough wind unscatter'd, at whose call 

Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales 

Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 

XJnfelt among the sedentary fowl 

That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay 

In silent congress ; or together roused 

Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 

And, over all, in that ethereal vault. 

Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 

Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, 

The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 

The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 

And the great Sun, Earth's universal lord ! 

How bountiful is JSTature ! he shall find 
Who seeks not ; and to him who hath not ask'd 
Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days 
Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights; 
And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
Was suddenly reveal'd ! — the swains moved on, 
And heeded not : you linger'd, you perceived 
And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
There is a luxury in self -dispraise ; 
And inward self-disparagement affords 
To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 
Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert. 
You judge unthankf ully : distemper'd nerves 
Infect the thoughts : the languor of the frame 
Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your couch, — 
Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 
Nor let the hallow'd powers, that shed from Heaven 
Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
Look down upon your taper, through a watch 
Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 



578 WORDSWORTH. 

Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 

Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 

That run not parallel to Nature's course. 

Kise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 

Grace, be their composition what it may, 

If but with hers perform'd ; climb once again, 

Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 

Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 

That from your garden thither soars, to feed 

On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 

Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone 

In thunder down the mountains ; with all your might 

Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red deer 

Fly to those harbours, driven by hound and horn 

Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit ; 

So, wearied to your hut shall you return, 

And sink at evening into sound repose." 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
A kindling eye : — accordant feelings rush'd 
Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
" 0, what a joy it were, in vigorous health. 
To have a body, (this our vital frame 
With shrinking sensibility endued, 
And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,) 
And to the elements surrender it 
As if it were a spirit I — How divine, 
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
To oldest Time ! and, reckless of the storm. 
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion, — one 
Among the many there ; and, while the mists 
n3dng, and rainy vapours, call out shapes 
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
Out of an instrument; and while the streams, 
(As at a first creation and in haste 
To exercise their untried faculties,) 
Descending from the region of the clouds, 
And starting from the hollo^vs of the earth 
More multitudinous every moment, rend 
Their way before them ; what a joy to roam 
An equal among mightiest energies ; 
And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 



THE EXCUESION. 379 

Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 

By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 

* fiage on, ye elements ! let Moon and stars 

Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 

With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 

From day to night, from night to day, prolong'd ! ^ " 

" Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
To such desires, and grasp'd at such delight. 
Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
Its cares and sorrows : he, though taught to own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness. 
Loving the sports whicli once he gloried in. 

Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills, 
The streams far distant of your native glen ; 
Yet is their form and image here express'd 
With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by niglit, 
Are various engines working, not the same 
As those with which your soul in youth was moved, 
But by the great Artificer endow'd 
With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 
For you a stately gallery maintain 
Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen. 
Have acted, sufEer'd, travell'd far, observed 
With no incurious eye ; and books are yours. 
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
Than that accumulated store of gold 
And orient gems which, for a day of need. 
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
And music waits upon your skilful touch. 
Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose : — furnish'd thus, 
How can you droop, if willing to be upraised ? 

A piteous lot it were to flee from Man, 
Yet not rejoice in Nature. He whose hours 
Are by domestic pleasures uncaress'd 
And unenliven'd ; who exists whole years 
Apart from benefits received or done 



380 WORDSWORTH. 

^Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 

Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 

Of the world's interests, — such a one hath need 

Of a quick fancy and an active heart, 

That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 

Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 

His morbia humour, with delight sujoplied 

Or solace, varying as the seasons change. — 

Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 

And easy contemplation ; gay parterres. 

And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 

And shady groves in studied contrast, — each. 

For recreation, leading into each : 

These may he range, if willing to partake 

Their soft indulgences, and in due time 

May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 

And course of service Truth requires from those 

Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne. 

And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels. 

And recognises ever and anon 

The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul, 

AVhy need such man go desperately astray. 

And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ' ? 

If tired with systems, each in its degree 

Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 

Let him build systems of his own, and smile 

At the fond work, demolish'd with a touch ; 

If unreligious, let him be at once. 

Among ten thousand innocents, enrolFd 

A pupil in the mauy-chamber'd school 

Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge ; 
And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
Yet rather would I instantly decline 
To the traditionary sympathies 
Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
A fearful apprehension from the owl 
Or death-watch; and as readily rejoice. 
If two auspicious magpies cross'd my way; — 
To this would rather bend than see and hear 
The repetitions wearisome of sense. 
Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
On outward things, with formal inference ends; 
Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
At once, — or, not recoiling, is perplex'd, — 



THE EXCURSION. 381 

Lost in a gloom of uninspired research : 
Meanwhile the heart within the heart, the seat 
Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell, 
On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth. 

Upon the breast of new-created Earth 
Man walk'd ; and when and whersoe'er he moved, 
Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
He heard, borne on the wind, th' articulate voice 
Of God ; and Angels to his sight appear'd 
Crowning the glorious hills of paradise ; 
Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
Enkindled by the Sun. He sate, — and talked 
With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
To his small island in th' ethereal deed 
Tidings of joy and love. From those pure heights 
(Whether of actual vision, sensible 
To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
Have condescendingly been shadow'd forth 
Communications spiritually maintain'd. 
And intuitions moral and divine) 
Fell Human-kind, — to banishment condemned 
That flowing years repeal' d not : and distress 
And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
Of destitution ; — solitude was not. — 
Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
By vocal utterance, or blaze of light. 
Or cloud of darkness, localised in Heaven ; 
On Earth, enshrined within the wandering ark; 
Or, out of Sion, thundering from His throne 
Between th^ Cherubim — on the chosen Eace 
Shower'd miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
Judgments, that fill'd the land from age to age 
With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 
His scorn'd or unacknowledged sovereignty. 
And when the One, ineffable of name, 
Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
From mortal adoration or regard. 
Not then was Deity engulf'd ; nor Man, 
The rational creature, left to feel the weight 
Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
Of higher reason and a purer will. 
To benefit and bless, through mightier power : — 
Whether the Persian, — zealous to reject 



382 WOEDSWORTH. 

Altar and image, and tli' inclusive walls 
And roofs of temples built by human hands, — 
To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 
With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
Presented sacrifice to Moon and stars. 
And to the winds and mother elements. 
And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 
A sensitive existence, and a God, 
"With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : ^ 
Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 
For influence undefined a personal shape ; 
And, from the plain, with toil immense, uprear'd 
Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 
That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
Descending, there might rest ; upon that height 
Pure and serene, diffused, — to overlook 
Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretch'd. 
With grove and field and garden interspersed ; 
Their town, and foodful region for support 
Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
Spread like a sea,^ in boundless solitude, 
Look'd on the polar star, as on a guide 
And guardian of their course, that never closed- 
His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 
With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
Watch'd, from the centre of their sleeping flocks, 
Those radiant Mercuries that seem'd to move 
Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 
Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
And, by their aspects, signifying works 
Of dim futurity, to Man reveal'd. — 
Th' imaginative faculty was lord 
Of observations natural ; and, thus 
Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 
In set rotation passing to and fro, 

1 The ancient religion of the Persians is very happily rtescribed by Herodotus. 
I quote the passage as translated by Gibbon: "They reject the use of teraples, of. 
altars, and of statues, and smile at the :'"olly of those nations who imagine that the 
gods are sprung from, or bear any affinity with, the Imman nature. The tops of the 
highest mountains are the places chosen for sacrifices. Hymns and prayers arc the 
principal M'orship; the supreme God, who fills the wide circle of heaven, is the ob- 
ject to Avhora they are addressed." 

2 Spread is here a participle agreeing with fields ; the construction being, " track- 
less fields spread out like a sea, beneath unclouded skies." 



THE EXCURSIOIT. 383 

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
And its invisible counterpart, adorn'd 
With answering constellations, under earth, 
Eemoved from all approach of living sight, 
But present to the dead ; who, so they deem'd. 
Like those celestial messengers * beheld 
All accidents, and judges were of all. 

The lively Grecian, — in a land of hills, 
Kivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, — 
Under a cope of sky more variable, 
Could find commodious place for every God, 
Promptly received, as prodigally brought. 
From the surrounding countries, at the choice 
Of all adventurers. With unrivall'd skill, 
As nicest observation furnished hints 
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestow'd 
On fluent operations a fix'd shape; 
Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
Of art, this palpable array of sense. 
On every side encounter'd ; in despite 
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung. 
Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms. 
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 
And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
Of immortality, in ]^ature's course, 
Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
And armed warrior ; and in every grove 
A gay or pensive tenderness prevail'd, 
When piety more awful had relax'd. — 
* Take, running river, take these locks of mine,' — 
Thus would the Votary say, — ' this sever'd hair, 

3 '♦ Those celestial messengers '• are the " stars in set rotation passing to and tro," 
as they are described a little before; stars which the shepherds, though they saw 
them not, believed to exist, because their behefwas shaped by "the imaginative 
faculty," more than by what their senses beheld. Modern astronomy has i-endered 
it somewhat difficult for us to form such astronomical conceptions as the ancients 
had. In this passage the Chaldeans are supposed to regard the Earth as a level sur- 
face of indefinite extent, and to believe that the upper celestial hemisphere, which 
was apparent to them during night, had a corresponding hemisphere below, which 
was apparent to the dead; while those imaginai-^^ stars cu-culated between the two 
hemispheres, and so were intelligent of all that was done in both. Of course this lower 
celestial hemisphere, with its starry splendours, was what is known to us as the 
southern hemisphere, the constellations of which are invisible to us in the North.— 
This whole discourse about the religious ideas and sentiments of the ancients is in 
Wordsworth's best manner, and is enough of itself to set him in the highest rank of 
poets. 



384 WOKDS WORTH. 

My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 

Thankful for my beloved child's return. 

Thy banks, Oephisus, he again hath trod, 

Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph 

With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 

And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields ! ' 

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 

Of Life continuous, Being unimpair'd; 

That hath been, is, and where it was and is 

There shall endure, — existence unexposed 

To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 

From diminution safe and weakening age ; 

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 

And countless generations of mankind 

Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 

We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
And, even as these are well and wisely fix'd, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 
But what is error ? " — "Answer he who can ! " 
The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaim'd : 
" Love, Hope, and Admiration, — are they not 
Mad Fancy's favourite vassals ? Does not life 
Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin. 
Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
Imagination's light when reason's fails, 
Th' unguarded taper where tlie guarded faints ? — 
Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
What error is ; and, of our errors, which 
Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ? " 

" iVIethinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
" That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 
Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
That poor men's children, they, and they alone, 
By their condition taught, can understand 
The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
How feelingly religion may be learn'd. 
In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue, — 
Heard while the dwelling vibrates to the din 



THE EXCUKSIOK. 385 

Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength 

At every moment, — and, with strength, increase 

Of fury"; or, while snow is at the door, 

Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 

A sightless labourer, whistles at his work, — 

Fearful ; but resignation tempers fear, 

And piety is sweet to infant minds. — 

The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves 

On the green turf a dial, to divide 

The silent hours ; and who to that report 

Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt. 

Throughout a long and lonely Summer's day. 

His round of pastoral duties, is not left 

With less intelligence for moral things 

Of gravest import. Early he perceives. 

Within himself, a measure and a rule. 

Which to the Sun of truth he can apply. 

That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 

Experience daily fixing his regards 

On nature's wants, he knows how few they are. 

And where they lie, how answer'd and appeased. 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard ; on this rock 

Eests his desires ; and hence, in after-life. 

Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 

On fickle pleasures and superfluous cares 

And trivial ostentation — is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and Nature, girded by a zone 

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that, whether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top. 

Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 

(Take from him what you will upon the score 

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 

For noble purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 

And those illusions wliich excite the scorn 

Or move the pity of unthinking minds. 

Are they not mainly outward ministers 

Of inward conscience ? with whose service charged 

They came and go, appeared and disappear, 



386 WORDSWORTH. 

Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 
Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
For less important ends those phantoms move, 
Who would forbid them, if their presence serve — 
On thinly -peopled mountains and wild heaths. 
Filling a space, else vacant — to exalt 
The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers ? 

Once more to distant ages of the world 
Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
The face which rural solitude might wear 
To th' unenlighten'd swains of pagan Greece. — 
In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretch'd 
On the soft grass through half a Summer's day, 
With music lull'd his indolent repose : 
And, in some fit of weariness, if he. 
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetch'd. 
Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun, 
A beardless Youth, who touch'd a golden lute. 
And fiird th' illumined groves with ravishment. 
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
Up towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart 
Call'd on the lovely wanderer who bestow'd 
That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
Across the laAv^n and through the darksome grove, 
Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
By echo multiplied from rock or cave. 
Swept in the storm of chase ; as Moon and stars 
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven. 
When winds are blowing strong.* The traveller slaked 
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thank'd 
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
The Zephyrs fanning, as they pass'd, their wings, 
Lack'd not, for love, fair objects whom they woo'd 
With gentle whisper. Wither'd boughs grotesque, 
Stripp'd of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 

4 The itnclassical reader may like to be told that Diana and her train of virgin 
attendants, ranging" the forest by moonlight, were mythical impersonations of the 
Moon and stars, as these appear to sweep through the upper air, when winds are 
driving clouds across the face of the sky. 



THE EXCURSION. 387 

From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
And, sometimes, intermix'd with stirring horns 
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself, 
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God ! " * 

The strain was aptly chosen ; and I could mark 
Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
Detains ; but, tempted now to interpose, 
He with a smile exclaim'd : 

" 'Tis well you speak 
At a safe distance from our native land. 
And from the mansions where our youth was taught. 
The true descendants of those godly men 
Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
That harbour'd them, — the souls retaining yet 
The churlish features of that after-race 
Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks, 
In deadly scorn of superstitions rites. 
Or what their scruples construed to be such, — 
How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
The weeds of Eomish phantasy, in vain 
Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 
To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne; 
And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 
To watch again with tutelary love 
O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 
A blessed restoration, to behold 
The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 
Once more parading through her crowded streets 
Now simply guarded by the sober powers 
Of science, and philoso23hy, and sense ! " 

This answer follow'd : " You have turn'd my thoughts 
Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
Against idolatry with warlike mind. 
And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 

5 For some account of Pan and the Satyrs, see page 242, note 8. 



388 WOKDSWORTH. 

Ill-shelter'd, and oft wanting fire and food : 

Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 

And did acknowledge, wheresoever they moved, 

A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived, 

But still a high dependence, a divine 

Bounty and government, that fill'd their hearts 

With joy and gratitude, and fear and love ; 

And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, 

That through the desert rang. Though favour'd less, 

Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 

Were those bcAvilder'd Pagans of old time. 

Beyond their own poor natures and above 

They look'd ; were humbly thankful for the good 

Which the warm Sun solicited, and earth 

Bestow'd; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 

They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 

And they had hopes that overstepp'd the Grave. 

Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaim'd, 
Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
From sense and reason less than these obtained, 
Thongh far misled ? Shall men for whom our age 
Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared. 
To explore the world without and world within. 
Be joyless as the blind ? Ambitious spirits. 
Whom Earth, at this late season, hath produced, 
To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
Have solved the elements, or analysed 
The thinking principle, — shall they in fact 
Prove a degraded Pace ? and what avails 
Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 
0, there is laughter at their work in Heaven I 
Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
That we should pry far off, yet be unraised ; 
That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore. 
Viewing all objects unremittingly 
In disconnection dead and spiritless; 
And, still dividing, and dividing still. 
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
May yet become more little ; ^ waging thus 

6 The moral starvation of the soul, which naturally results from shirking off all 
impressions of awe and reverence, and confining the attention to such tilings as our 
poor little minds can comprehend, was a favourite theme with Wordsworth. See 
page 170, note 9. 



THE EXCURSION. 

An impious warfare with the very life 
Of our own souls ! 

And if indeed there be 
An all-pervading Spirit upon whom 
Our dark foundations rest, could He design 
That this magnificent effect of power, 
The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
By day, and all the pomp which night reveals; 
That these — and that superior mystery 
Our vital frame, so fearfully devised. 
And the dread soul within it — should exist 
Only to be examined, ponder'd, searched. 
Probed, vex'd, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am. 
If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 
And offer'd, far as frailty would allow, 
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
Eevolts, offended at the ways of men 
Sway'd by such motives, to such ends employ'd ; 
Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
Be of a thousand faculties composed. 
And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
No more than as a mirror that reflects 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That one, poor, finite object, in th' abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 

Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
And his compeers, — the laughing Sage of France^ 
Crown'd was he, if my memory do not err. 
With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
And benefits his wisdom had conferr'd ; 
His tottering body was with wreaths of flowers 
Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree ; 
Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain old Man, 
And a most frivolous people.® Him I mean 

7 The allusion is to Voltaire, who is said to have declared, " I am tired of hearing 
it reported that tn-elve men -were sufficient to found Christianity : I will show the 
woi'ld that one is sufficient to destroy it." And this prince of persi'fleurs fancied that 
he Avas going to scoff, and flout, and laugh Christianity out of the world, and thus 
deliver the liuinan mind from " the tyranny of superstition " ! 

8 This was in March, 1778, Voltaire being then eighty-four years old. Having 
groAAHi rather weary of his retirement at Ferney, the hyperbolical old fop made a 
visit to Paris, and was there almost suffocated with hyperbolical ovations. I quote 



390 WORDSWORTH. 

Who penn'd, to ridicule confiding faith, 

This sorry Legend ; which hy chance we found 

Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, 

Among more innocent ruhbish." — Speaking thus. 

With a brief notice when and how and where 

We had espied the book, he drew it forth ; 

And courteously, as if the act removed 

At once all traces from the good Man's heart 

Of unbenign aversion or contempt. 

Restored it to its owner. '- Gentle Friend," 

Herewith he grasp'd the Solitary's hand, 

" You have known lights and guides better than these. 

Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 

A noble mind to practise on herself. 

And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 

Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feai*'d. 

From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 

To lower : can you question that the soul 

Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 

To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 

By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 

Of levity no refuge can be found, 

No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 

He, who by wilful disesteem of life 

And proud insensibility to hope, 

Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 

TJiat her mild nature can be terrible ; 

That neither she nor Silence lack the power 

To avenge their own insulted majesty. 

blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
The law of duty; and can therefore move 
Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, 
Link'd in entire complacence with her choice ; 
When youth's presumptuousness is mellow'd down 
And manliood's vain anxiety dismiss'd; 
When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit. 
Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops 
To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 

from Carlyle's essay on Voltaire : " To our view, that final visit to Paris has a strange 
half-frivolous, half-'fateful aspect : there is, as it were, a sort of dramatic justice m 
this catastrophe, that he, who hatl all liit, life hungered and thirsted after public fa- 
vour, should at length die by excess of it; should find the door of his Heaven-on-earth 
unexpectedly throwni wide open, and enter there, only to l)e, as he himself said, 
•smothered under roses.' Had Paris any suitable theogony or theology, as Rome 
and Athens had, this might almost be reclioned, as those ancients accounted of death 
by lightning, a sacred death, a death from tlie gods, — from their many-headed god, 
Popularity."— Voltaire died on the 30th of May following. 



THE EXCURSIOlf. 391 

Of uiireproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 

To muse, and be saluted by the air 

Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 

From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride 

And chambers of transgression, now forlorn. 

calm contented days and peaceful nights! 

Who, when such good can be obtain'd, would strive 

To reconcile his manhood to a couch. 

Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 

Stuff'd with the thorny substance of the past 

For fix'd annoyance ; and full oft beset 

\Yith floating dreams, black and disconsolate. 

The vapouiy phantoms of futurity ? 

Within the soul a faculty abides, 
" That with interpositions, which would hide 
And darken, so can deal that they become 
Contingencies of pomp, and seiTe to exalt 
Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light. 
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own. 
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt; 
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touch'd 
With manifest emotion, and exclaim'd : 
*' But how begin ? and whence ? — ' The Mind is free, — 
Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
' This single act is all that we demand.' 
Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
His natural wings ! — To friendship let him turn 
For succour ; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, toss'd in a little boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Which no condition can preclude ; of One 



392 WORDSWORTH. 

Who sees iill suffering, comprehends all wants, 

All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 

But is that bounty absolute ? His gifts. 

Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards 

For acts of service ? Can His love extend 

To hearts that own not Him ? Will showers of grace, 

When in the sky no promise may be seen, 

Fall to refresh a parch'd and withered land ? 

Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 

At the Redeemer's feet ? " 

In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien, he spake : 
Back to my mind rush'd all that had been urged. 
To calm the Sufierer when his story closed ; 
I look'd for counsel as unbending now ; 
But a discriminating sympathy 
Stoop'd to this apt re^Dly : 

" As men from men 
Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemn'd, 
Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame ; 
So manifold and various are the ways 
Of restoration, fashion'd to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same point, attainable by all, — 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
At every moment soften'd in its course 
By tenderness of heart ; have seen your eye. 
Even like an altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
Kindle before us. Your discourse this day. 
That, like the fabled Lethe, wish'd to flow 
In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
The colours of the Sun. Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth. 
Which the imaginative Will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approach'd 
By the inferior Faculty that moulds. 
With her minute and speculative pains. 
Opinion, ever changing ! 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 



THE EXCURSION. 393 

Of inland ground, applying to his ear 

The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell ; 

To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 

Listen'd intensely ; and his countenance soon 

Brighten'd with joy ; for from within were heard 

Murmurings, whereby the monitor express'd 

Mysterious union with its native sea. 

Even such a shell the Universe itself 

Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 

I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 

Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 

And central peace, subsisting at the heart 

Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 

Adore, and worship, when you know it not; 

Pious beyond th' intention of your thought ; 

Devout above the meaning of your wall. — 

Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 

Th' estate of man would be indeed forlorn 

If false conclusions of the reasoning power 

Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 

Through which the ear converses with the heart. 

Has not the soul, the being of your life, 

Eeceived a shock of awful consciousness. 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 

At night's approach bring down th' unclouded sky. 

To rest upon their circumambient walls ? 

A temple framing of dimensions vast. 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify th' Eternal ! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 

And the soft woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights. 

And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks ; 

The little rills, and waters numberless. 

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 

With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard. 

Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 

One voice, — the solitary raven, flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 



394 WORDSWORTH. 

Unseen, perchance above all power of sight, — 

An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 

Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 

The wanderer accompanies her flight 

Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, 

Diminishing by distance till it seem'd 

To expire ; yet from th' abyss is caught again, 

And yet again recover'd ! 

But, descending 
From these imaginative heights, that yield 
Far-stretching views into eternity. 
Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 
Your cherish'd sullenness is forced to bend 
Even here, where her amenities are sown 
AVith sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 
To range her blooming bowers and spacious fields. 
Where on the labours of the happy throng 
She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 
Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we track 
Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 
Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
Eoaming, or resting under grateful shade 
In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
Where living things, and things inanimate, 
Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear. 
And speak to social reason's inner sense. 
With inarticulate language. 

For, the Man — 
Who, in this spirit, communes ^ with the Forms 
Of Nature, who with understanding heart 
Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must feel 
The joy of that pure principle of love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures, and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion soften'd down; 
A holy tenderness pervades his frame. 
His sanity of reason not impair'd, 

9 Wordsworth, Milton, and, I think, the English poets generally, lay the accent, 
as here, on the flrat syllable of commune. 



THE EXCURSION. 395 

Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 
From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 
And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 
Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
He only knows by name; and, if he hear. 
From other mouths, the language which they speak, 
He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
No feeling, which can overcome his love. 

And further : by contemplating these Forms 
In the relations which they bear to man, 
He shall discern how, through the various means 
Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
The spiritual presences of absent things. 
Trust me that, for th' instructed, time will come 
-When they shall meet no object but may teach 
Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
So shall they learn, while all things speak of man, 
Their duties from all forms ; and general laws 
And local accidents shall tend alike 
To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
Th' ability to spread the blessings wide 
Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
Departing not, for them shall be confirm'd 
The glorious habit by which sense is made 
Subservient still to moral purposes, 
Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 
The burthen of existence. Science then 
Shall be a precious visitant ; and then. 
And only then, be worthy of her name : 
For then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye, 
Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
Chain'd to its object in brute slavery : 
But, taught with patient interest to watch 
The processes of things, and serve the cause 
Of order and distinctness, not for this 
Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
Its most illustrious province, must be found 
In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power. — 
So build we up the Being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things. 
We shall be wise perforce ; and, while inspired 
By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 



396 WORDSWOKTH. 

Shall move unswerving, even as if impell'd 
By strict necessity, along the path 
Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength. 
Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
Pour'd forth with fervour in continuous stream. 
Such as, remote, ^mid savage wilderness, 
An Indian Chief discharges from his hreast 
Into the hearing of assembled tribes. 
In open circle seated round, and hush'd 
As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak : 
The words he utter'd shall not pass away 
Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up 
By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
!N^o, — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
Of one whom time and Nature had made wise, 
Gracing his doctrine with authority 
Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
Of one accustom'd to desires that feed 
On fruitage gather'd from the tree of life ; 
To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
Had ripen'd into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
Though bound to Earth by ties of pity and love, 
Erom all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were reach'd, 
Had yet to travel far, but unto us. 
To us who stood low in that hollow dell. 
He had become invisible, — a pomp 
Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest ; 
A dispensation of his evening power. — 
Adown the path that from the glen had led 
The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
Were seen descending : forth to greet them ran 
Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
And in the Matron's countenance may be read 
Plain indication that the words, which told 
How that neglected Pensioner was sent 



THE EXCURSIOIT. 397 

Before his time into a quiet grave, 

Had done to her humanity no wrong: 

But we are kindly welcomed, — promptly served 

With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 

Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 

A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 

Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay, 

Stretch'd upon fragrant heath, and lull'd by sound 

Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 

And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts. 

Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 



BOOK FIFTH. 



THE PASTOR. 



" Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 

And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 

And guardian rocks I Farewell, attractive seat ! 

To the still influx of the morning light 

Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veil'd 

From human observation, as if yet 

Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark 

Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell. 

Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss. 

By Nature destined from the birth of things 

For quietness profound ! " 

Upon the side 
Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt. 
Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed 
A parting tribute to a spot that seem'd 
Like the fix'd centre of a troubled world. 
Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
The chain that would not slacken was at length 
Snapt ; and, pursuing leisurely my way. 
How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 
To seek that comfort which the mind denies; 
Yet trial and temptation oft are shunn'd 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold. 
Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity and undisturb'd repose. — 



398 WORDSWORTH. 

Knowledge, metliinks, in these disorder'd times 

Should be allow'd a privilege to have 

Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 

Men who, from faction sacred, and unstain'd 

By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 

Uncensured, and subsist, a scatter'd few 

Living to God and Nature, and content 

With that communion. Consecrated be 

The spots where such abide ! But happier still 

The Man whom, furthermore, a hope attends 

That meditation and research may guide 

His privacy to principles and powers 

Discover'd or invented; ^ or set forth, 

Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, 

In lucid order ; so that, when his course 

Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 

He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 

His unobtrusive merit ; but his life, 

Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 

That shall survive his name and memory. 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks 
For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
A choice that from the passions of the world 
Withdrew, and fix'd me in a still retreat ; 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost ; 
Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
Cheering my days, and with industrious thought; 
With th* ever- welcome company of books ; 
With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along. 
Following the rugged road by sledge or wheel 
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
Halting together on a rocky knoll. 
Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
To the green meadows of another vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man said, 
" The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
We must not part at this inviting hour." 

1 Galileo, born February 15, 1564, the same year Mith Shakespeare, invented a per- 
spective glass, with Avhich he soon after discovered the satellites of Jupiter. 



THE EXCURSIOl?^. 399 

He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
Instinctively disposed him to retire 
To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. — 
So we descend; and winding round a rock 
Attain a point that show'd the valley, stretch'd 
In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower. 
Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
Among steep hills and woods embosom' d, flow'd 
A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; 
Here traceable, there hidden, — there again 
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
■ On the stream's bank, and everywhere appeared 
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
Some scatter'd o'er the level, others perch'd 
On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
Now in its morning purity array'd. 

" As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," 
Said I, '^ once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
Destroy'd their unoffending commonwealth, 
A popular equality reigns here. 
Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof 
A rural lord might dwell." — "No feudal pomp 
Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that House 
Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
The shepherd of his flock ; or, as a king 
Is styled, when most affectionately praised. 
The father of his people. Such is he ; 
And rich and poor, and young and old rejoice 
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
And something also of his inner mind 
Hath he imparted, — but I speak of him 
As he is known to all. 

The calm delights 
Of unambitious piety he chose. 
And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
From academic bowers. He loved the spot, — 
Who does not love his native soil ? — he prized 
The ancient rural character, composed 



400 WORDSWORTH. 

Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 

And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; 

A character reflected in himself, 

With such embellishment as well beseems 

His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 

Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 

And one a turreted manorial hall 

Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 

Have dwelt through ages, — Patrons of this Cure. 

To them, and to his own judicious pains, 

The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, 

Owes that presiding aspect which might well 

Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 

Have been bestow'd, through course of common chance, 

On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our w^ay ; 
Nor reach'd the village-churchyard till the Sun, 
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
Above the summits of the highest hills. 
And round our path darted oppressive beams. 

As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
Stood open ; and we enter'd. On my frame, 
At such transition from the fervid air, 
A grateful coolness fell, that seem'd to strike 
The heart in concert with that temperate awe 
And natural reverence which the place inspired.^ 
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
By naked rafters intricately cross'd 
Like leafless underboughs in some thick wood, 
All wither'd by the depth of shade above. 
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls. 
Each in its ornamental scroll enclosed ; 
Each also crown'd with winged heads, — a pair 
Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
AYas occupied by oaken benches ranged 
In seemly rows ; the chancel only show'd 
Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state 
By immemorial privilege allow'd ; 

2 One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I recognised so very lately 
at Harrow church on entering it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, — the instan- 
tancous coolness, and calming, and almost transforming properties of the country 
church just entered; a certain fragrance which it has, either from its holiness, or be- 
in'.r kept shut all the week, or the air that is left in it being pure country. —Chakles 
Lamu. 



THE EXCUESIOK. 401 

Though with th' Encincture's special sanctity 
But ill according. An heraldic shield. 
Varying its tincture with the changeful light, 
Imbued the altar-window ; fix'd aloft 
A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 
Yet undiscolour'd. A capacious pew 
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 
And marble monuments were here displayed 
Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 
Sepulchral stones appear' d, with emblems graven 
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 
And shining effigies of brass inlaid.'' 

The tribute by these various records claim'd, 
Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
■ The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
Office, alliance, and promotion, — all 
Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates. 
Grave doctors strenuous for the Mother-Church, 
And uncorrupted senators, alike 
To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
Not easily decipher'd, told of one 
Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
In quality of page among the train 
Of the eighth Henry, when he cross'd the seas 
His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
Another tablet register'd the death, 
And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
Near this brave Knight his Father lay entomb'd ; 
And, to the silent language giving voice, 
I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
He, 'mid th' afflictions of intestine war 
And rightful government subverted, found 
One only solace, — that he had espoused 
A wtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
Endear'd to him for this, that, in her state 
Of wedlock richly crown'd with Heaven's regard. 
She with a numerous issue fill'd his house. 
Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm 

3 The church is that of Grasmere, The mterior of it has been improved lately, — 
made warmer by underdrawing the roof, and raising the floor; but the rude and an- 
bique majesty of its former appearance has been impaired by painting the rafters; 
and the oak benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing them from each other, 
have given way to seats that have more of the appearance of ipews.— Author's Notest 



402 WOEDSWORTH. 

That laid tlieir country waste. No need to speak 
Of less particular notices assigned 
To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 
Whose charity and goodness Avere rehearsed 
In modest panegyric. 

" These dim lines, 
What would they tell ? " said I, — but, from the task 
Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
Caird me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 
Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
Upturn'd, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
In some abstraction; — gracefully he stood, 
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
That leans upon a monumental urn 
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse ; 
Who enterd, humming carelessly a tune, 
Continuation haply of the notes 
That had beguiled the work from which he came, 
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung; 
To be deposited, for future need, 
In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
Withdrew ; and straight we f ollow'd, — to a spot 
Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
My ancient Friend and I together took 
Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
Standing before us : 

" Did you note the mien 
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's grave, 
Or wraps an old acquaintance up. in clay. 
All unconcern'd as he would bind a sheaf, 
Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice? 
I was abruptly summon'd by the sound 
From some affecting images and thoughts. 
Which then were silent ; but crave utterance now. 

Much/' he continued, with dejected look, 
" Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 



THE EXCURSION. 403 

Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 

For future states of being ; and the wings 

Of speculatiou, joyfully outspread, 

Hover'd above our destiny on Earth : 

But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 

In sober contrast with reality, 

And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 

Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 

Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 

Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame. 

To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 

That which is done accords with what is known 

To reason, and by conscience is enjoin'd; 

How idly, how perversely, life's whole course. 

To this conclusion, deviates from the line. 

Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 

At her aspiring outset. 

Mark the babe 
Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
One that hath barely learn'd to shape a smile, 
Though yet irrational of soul ; to grasp 
With tiny finger, — to let fall a tear ; 
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem. 
The outward functions of intelligent man; 
A grave proficient in amusive feats 
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
His expectations, and announce his claims 
To tbat inheritance which millions rue 
That they were ever born to ! In due time 
A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 
When they who for this Minor hold in trust 
Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
Of mere humanity present their Charge, 
For this occasion daintily adorn'd. 
At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
And consecrating element hath cleansed 
Th' original stain, the child is there received 
Into the second ark, Christ's Church, with trust 
That he, from wrath redeem'd, therein shall float 
Over the billows of this troublesome world 
To the fair land of everlasting life. 
Corrupt affections, covetous desires. 
Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
Can carry virtue, virtue is prof ess'd ; 



404 WOKDSWOETH. 

A dedication made, a promise given 
For due provision to control and guide. 
And unremitting 2)rogress to ensure 
In holiness and truth.'^ 

" You cannot blame," 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
"Kites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good or evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
Those services whereby attempt is made 
To lift the creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
He stood ; or, if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels ^tis given him to descry ; 
Not without aspirations evermore 
Returning, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost. 
May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
Lies within reach, and one day shall be gain'd," 

"I blame them not," he calmly answer d, — " no; 
The outward ritual and established forms 
With which communities of men invest 
These inward feelings, and th' aspiring vows 
To which the lips give public utterance, 
Are both a natural process ; and by me 
Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove. 
Bringing from age to age its own reproach. 
Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, ! 
If to be weak is to be wretched, — miserable. 
As the lost Angel by a human voice 
Hath mournfully pronounced,* then, in my mind. 
Far better not to move at all than move 
By impulse sent from such illusive power, — 
That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
That tempts, emboldens, — for a time sustains. 
And then betrays ; accuses, and inflicts 
Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
Th' inevitable circle : better far 
Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace. 
By foresight or remembrance, undisturb'd ! 

4 The allusion is to Satan's reply to Beelzebub, in Paradise LosU i. 157: 
" Fall*n cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering; " &c. 



THE EXCUESION. 405 

Philosophy ! and thon more vaunted name, 
Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
Faith, Hope, and Charity, — from the visible world 
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
Of safest guidance or of firmest trust, — 
The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
The generations of mankind have knelt 
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
And through that conflict seeking rest; — of you. 
High-titled Powers, am I constrain'd to ask. 
Here standing, with th' unvoyageble sky 
In faint reflection of infinitude 
Stretch'd overhead, and at my pensive feet 
A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
In whose dark vaults my own soon shall be laid, 
Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ? 
And in what age admitted and confirm'd ? — 
Not for a happy land do I inquire, 
Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
To your serene authorities conform ; 
But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways, 
Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ? — If the heart 
Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
By sight undazzled with the glare of praise. 
Who shall be named, — in the resplendent line 
Of sages, martyrs, confessors, — the man 
Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd, 
For one day's little compass has preserved 
From painful and discreditable shocks 
Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
Culpably cherish'd, or corrupt relapse 
To some unsanction'd fear ? " 

" If this be so. 
And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
Thus pitiably infirm ; then He who made. 
And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. 
Yet, in its general tenour, your complaint 
Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts 
Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
By natural exhalation. With the dead 
In their repose, the living in their mirth. 
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 



406 WOEDSWORTH. 

Of smooth and solemnized complacencies 

By which, on Christian lands, from age to age 

Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick. 

And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 

Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 

Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 

And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves: 

A light of duty shines on every day 

For all ; and yet how few are warm'd or cheer'd ! 

How few who mingle with their fellow-men, 

And still remain self-govern'd, and apart, 

Like this our honour'd Friend ; and thence acquire 

Eight to expect his vigorous decline, 

That promises to the end a blest old age ! " 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
The Solitary, " in the life of man. 
If to the poetry of common speech 
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
A true reflection of the circling year, 
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there. 
In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers; 
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day. 
That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit. 
Where is she imaged ? in what favoured clime 
Her lavish pomp and ripe magnificence ? 
Yet, Avhile the better part is miss'd, the worse 
In Man's autumnal season is set forth 
With a resemblance not to be denied. 
And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves. 
Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 

How gay the habitations that bedeck 
This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
To give assurance of content within ; 
Embosom'd hapjoiness and placid love ; 
As if the sunshine of the day Avere met 
With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
Who walk this favour'd ground. But chance-regards. 
And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
These, if these only, acting in despite 
Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
On humble life, forbid the judging mind 



THE EXCURSION". 407 

To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 

And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race 

Of mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 

From foul temptations, and by constant care 

Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 

Do tend their flocks) partake Man's general lot 

With little mitigation. They escape, 

Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not 

The tedium of fantastic idleness : 

Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 

Is fashion'd like an ill-constructed tale ; 

That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 

Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes. 

And pleasant interests, — for the sequel leaving 

Old things repeated with diminish'd grace ; 

And all the laboured novelties at best 

Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 

Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 

While in this serious mood we held discourse. 
The reverend Pastor toward the churchyard gate 
Approach'd ; and, with a mild respectful air 
Of native cordiality, our Friend 
Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
Was he received, and mutual Joy prevail'd. 
Awhile they stood in conference ; and I guess 
That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
Sate by my side, had vanish'd, if a wish 
Could have transferr'd him to the flying clouds, 
Or the least penetrable hiding-place 
In his own valley's rocky guardianship. — 
For me, I look'd upon the pair, well pleased : 
Nature had framed them both, and both were mark'd 
By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 
Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak. 
Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
One might be liken'd : flourishing appear'd. 
Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 
The other, — like a stately sycamore. 
That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honey'd shade.® 

5 I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in The Excursion to portray the 
laracter of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the 
pper ranks of society, so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time 
rought by his pastoral oflice and his love of rural life into intimate connection with 
le peasantry of his native district. To illustrate the relations -which, in my mind, 
lis "Pastor" bore to the "Wanderer," and the resemblances between them, or 
Jther the points of communitj' in their nature, I likened one to an oak, and the other 
) a sycamore; and, having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I bad 



408 WORDSWORTH. 

A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
The Pastor learn'd that his approach had given 
A welcome interruption to discourse 
Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
A child of hope ? Do generations press 
On generations, without progress made? 
Halts th' individual, ere his hairs be grey. 
Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
So that the only substance which remains, 
(For thus the tenour of complaint hath run,) 
Among so many shadows, are the pains 
And penalties of miserable life, 
Doom'd to decay, and then expire in dust ! — 
Our cogitations this way have been drawn. 
These are the points," the Wanderer said, '^ on which 
Our inquest turns. Accord, good Sir, the light 
Of your experience, to dispel this gloom : 
By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 
That frets, or languishes, be still'd and cheer d." 

" Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
" Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive, 
"With undistemper'd and unclouded spirit, 
The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
That speculative height ive may not reach. 
The good and evil are our own ; and we 
Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
As virtue's self ; like virtue is beset 
With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay.^ 

no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in 
upon the simplicity of it by traits of individual character, or of any peculiarity of 
opinion. — Author's Notes, 1843. 

6 A most important truth, which the believers in " salvation by knowledge " would 
do well to heed. Half the mental work of life is in unlearning errors which our 
" most frail affections " have led us to mistake for knowledge. On this subject the 
author of Ecce Homo has an apt passage : " It is quite as hard to think rightly as it is 
to act rightly, or even to feel rightly. And as all allow that an error is a less culpa- 
ble thing than a crime or a vicious passion, it is monst>;-ous that it should be more 
severely punished; it is monstrous that Christ, who Avas called the friend of publi- 
cans and sinners, should be represented as the pitiless enemy of bewildered seekers 
of truth. HoAV could men have been guilty of such an inconsistency ? By speaking 
of what they do not iniderstand. Men, in general, do not understand or apjn'eciate 
the difficulty of flnding truth. All men must act, and therefore all men learn in some 
degree how difficult it is to act rightly. The consequence is, that all men can make 
cx<5use for those who fail to act rightly. But all men are not compelled to make au: 
independent search for truth; and those who voluntarily undertake to do so are al- 
ways few." 



THE EXCUESION. 409 

Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 

Blind were we without these; through these alone 

Are capable to notice or discern 

Or to record : we judge, but cannot be 

Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 

Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 

An effort only, and a noble aim ; 

A crown, an attribute of sovereign power. 

Still to be courted, — never to be won. — 

Look forth, or each man dive into himself: 

What sees he but a creature too perturb'd ; 

That is transported to excess ; that yearns. 

Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 

Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 

Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? 

Thus comprehension fails, and truth is miss'd ; 

Thus darkness and delusion round our path 

Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 

Within the very faculty of sight. 

Yet, for the general purposes of faith 
In Providence, for solace and support. 
We may not doubt that who can best subject 
The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
The clearest apprehension of those truths 
Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this. 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness, through which 
The very multitude are free to range, 
We safely may affirm that human life 
Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view. 
Even as the same is look'd at, or approach'd. 
Thus, when in changeful April fields are white 
With new-fall'n snow, if from the sullen north 
Your walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun 
Hath gain'd his noontide height, this churchyard, fiU'd 
With mounds transversely lying side by side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain. 
With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 



410 WORDSWORTH. 

His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall. 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
Then will a vernal prospect gi-eet your eye, 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright. 
Hopeful and cheerful : vanish'd is the pall 
That overspread and chill'd the sacred turf, 
Vanish'd or hidden ; and the whole domain. 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. — 
This contrast, not unsuitable to life. 
Is to that other state more apposite. 
Death and its twofold aspect ! wintry, one. 
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; 
The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd, 
Eeplete with vivid promise, bright as Spring." 

" We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
With a complacent animation spake, 
" And in your judgment, Sir, the mind's repose 
On evidence is not to be ensured 
By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
And which, once built, retains a steadfast shape 
And undisturb'd proportions ; but a thing 
Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; 
And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
AVhose root is fix'd in stable earth, whose head 
Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 
I re-salute these sentiments confirm'd 
By your authority. But how acquire 
The inward principle that gives effect 
To outward argument ; the passive will 
Meek to admit ; the active energy. 
Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
With self -forget ting tenderness of heart 
An earih-despising dignity of soul ? 
Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 

" The way," said I, " to court, if not obtain 
Th' ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright, — 
This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
From visible nature, or the inner self. 
Power may be train'd, and renovation brought 
To those who need the gift. But, after all. 
Is aught so certain as that man is doom'd 



THE EXCURSION. 411 

To breathe beneath a yault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dark house in which 
His soul is pent! How little can be known, — 
This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err, — 
This is the good man's not nnf requent pang ! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course; — 
Such do I mean wlio, unperplex'd by doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects further than they may. 
Pace to and fro, from mom till even-tide, 
The narrow ayenue of daily toil 
For daily bread." 

" Yes," buoyantly exclaim'd 
The pale Recluse, **' praise to the sturdy plough 
And patient spade ; praise to the simple crook. 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
Body and mind in one captivity : 
And let tlie light mechanic tool be hail'd 
With honour; which, encasing by the power 
Of long companionship the artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
From a too busy commerce with the heart ! — 
Inglorious implements of craft and toil. 
Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
By slow solicitation, earth to peld 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
Kot for gross good alone which ye produce, 
But for til' impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye prechide, — in those 
Who to your dull society are born. 
And with their humble birthright rest content. 
Would I had ne'er renounced it ! " 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The old Plan's cheek ; but, at tliis closing turn 
Of self-reproach, it pass'd away. Said he, 
" That whicli we feel we utter ; as we think. 
So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief. 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
"Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further help ? The mine of real life 
Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 



412 WORDSWORTH. 

Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 

Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 

Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 

Around us a domain where you have long 

Watch'd botli the outward course and inner heart : 

Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; 

For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man 

He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 

What qualities of mind she bears who comes, 

For morn and evening service, with her pail. 

To that green pasture ; place before our sight 

The family who dwell within yon house 

Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 

Below, from Avhich the curling smoke ascends. 

Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 

And have the dead around us, take from them 

Your instances; for they are Jooth best known, 

And by frail man most equitably judged. 

Epitomise the life ; pronounce, you can, 

Authentic epitaphs on some of these 

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 

Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet : 

So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 

And so, not searching higher, we may learn 

To prize the 'breath lue share with human hind; 

And looh upon the dust of man icith aive" 

The Priest replied, " An office you impose 
For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
Yet much, I feel, is wanting, — else the task 
Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with these 
The future cannot contradict the past; 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
The very Soul, reveal'd as she departs. 
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
One picture from the living. 

You behold, 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
And such it might be deem'd, — a sleeping sunbeam; 
But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 



THE EXCURSION. 413 

Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; 

And that attractive brightness is its own. 

The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 

Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 

The tiller's hand, a lierrait might have chosen, 

For opportunity presented, thence 

Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 

And ocean, and look down upon the works. 

The habitations, and the ways of men, 

Himself unseen. But no tradition tells 

That ever hermit dipp'd his maple dish 

In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields ; 

And no such visionary views belong 

To those who occupy and till the ground. 

High on that mountain where they long have dwelt 

A wedded pair in childless solitude. 

A house of stones collected on the spot. 

By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 

Back'd also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 

Of birch-trees waves over the chimney-top ; 

A rough abode, — in colour, shape, and size, 

Such as in unsafe times of border-war 

Might have been wish'd for and contrived, to elude 

The eye of roving plunderer, — for their need 

Suffices ; and unshaken bears tli' assault 

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 

In anger blowing from the distant sea. — 

Alone witliin her solitary hut; — 

There, or within the compass of her fields. 

At any moment may the Dame be found, . 

True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 

And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 

By intermingled work of house and field 

The Summer's day, and Winter's ; with success 

Not equal, but sufficient to maintain. 

Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, 

Until th' expected hour at which her Mate 

From the far-distant quarry's vault returns; 

And by his converse crowns a silent day 

With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, 

In scale of culture, few among my flock 

Hold lower rank than this sequester'd pair : 

But true humility descends from Heaven ; 

And that best gift of Heaven hath fallen on them; 

Abundant recompense for every want. — 

Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these ! 



414 WORDSWORTH. 

AVlio, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
The voice of wisdom whisj)ering scripture texts 
For the mind's government, or temper's peace; 
And recommending, for their mutual need, 
Forgiveness, patience, liox)e, and charity ! " 

" Much was I pleased,-'-' the grey-hair 'd Wanderer said, 
"When to those shining fields our notice first 
You tnrn'd; and yet more pleased have from your lips 
Gather'd this fair report of them who dwell 
In that retirement ; whither, by such course 
Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
A tired way-faring man, once /was brought 
While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
Dark on my road th' autumnal evening fell, 
And night succeeded with unusual gloom. 
So hazardous that feet and hands became 
Guides better than mine eyes, — until a light 
High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
For human habitation ; but I long'd 
To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
I look'd with steadiness, as sailors look 
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp. 
And saw the light, — now fix'd, and shifting now, — 
Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 
It is no night-fire of the naked hills. 
Thought I, — some friendly covert must be near.' 
With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
Who there was standing on the open hill 
(The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 
Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
Ceased, when she learn'd through what mishap I came, 
And by what help had gain'd those distant fields. 
Drawn from her cottage, on that aery height, 
Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 
Or paced the ground, to guide her Husband home, 
By that unwearied signal kenn'd afar; 
An anxious duty ! which the lofty site, 
Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
Detains him after his accustom'd hour 
Till night lies black upon the ground. * But come, 
Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 
Those dark rocks hide it ! ' Entering, I beheld 



THE EXCURSION. 415 

A blazing fire, — beside a cleanly hearth 
Sate down ; and to her office, with leave ask'd 
The Dame return'd. 

Or e'er that glowing pile 
Of mountain turf required the builder's hand 
Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
Open'd, and she re-enter'd with glad looks, 
Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 
Frank conversation, made the evening's treat : 
Need a bewilder'd traveller wish for more ? 
But more was given : I studied, as we sate 
By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face 
Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
Of undisturb'd humanity ; a cheek 
Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; 
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
A tardy api^rehension. From a fount 
Lost, thought I, in th' obscurities of time. 
But honour'd once, those features and that mien 
May have descended, though I see them here. 
In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds. 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherish'd and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high. 
As books record, and even the careless mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 

Eoused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
I yet had risen too late to interchange 
A morning salutation with my Host, 
Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
Of his day's work. ^ Three dark mid-winter months 
Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see. 
Save when the sabbath brings its kind release. 
My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 
His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the bread 
For which we pray ; and for the wants provide 
Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
Companions have I many ; many friends, 
Dependants, comforters, — my wheel, my fire. 



416 WORDSWORTH. 

All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 
The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 
And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 
This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read; 
With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 
On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 
Care not for me, he lingers round my door. 
And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; 
But, above all, my thoughts are my support. 
My comfort : — would that they were often er fix'd 
On what, for guidance in the way that leads 
To Heaven, I know, by my Eedeemer taught.' 
The Matron ended ; nor could I forbear 
To exclaim, * happy, yielding to the law 
Of these privations, richer in the main ! 
"While thankless thousands are opprest and clogg'd 
By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 
And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
While tens of thousands falter in their path. 
And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 
For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
For you each evening hath its shining star, 
And every sabbath-day its golden Sun.' " 
" Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
That seem'd to break from an expanding heart, 
" Th' untutor'd bird may found, and so construct, 
And with such soft materials line, her nest 
Fix'd in the centre of a prickly brake. 
That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
Powers not unjustly liken'd to those gifts 
Of liappy instinct which the woodland bird 
Shares with her species, Nature's grace sometimes 
Upon the individual doth confer, 
Among her higher creatures born and train'd 
To use of reason. And I own that — tired 
Of th' ostentatious world, a swelling stage 
With empty actions and vain passions stuff'd; 
And from the private struggles of mankind 
Hoping far less than I could wish to hope. 
Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
I love to hear of those who, not contending 
Nor summon'd to contend for virtue's prize, 
Miss not the humbler good at whicli they aim. 
Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 



THE EXCURSION. 417 

Into their contraries the petty plagues 

And hindrances with which tliey stand beset. 

In early youth, among my native hills, 

I knew a Scottish peasant who possess'd 

A few small crofts of stone-encumber'd ground; 

Masses of every shape and size, that lay 

Scatter'd about under the mouldering walls 

Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart. 

In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 

As if the Moon had shower'd them down in spite. 

But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 

By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 

A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 

* Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 

And damps, through all the droughty summer day 

From out their substance issuing, maintain 

Herbage that never fails : no grass springs up 

So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 

But thinly sown these natures ; rare, at least, 

The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 

That yields such kindly product. He whose bed 

Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 

Brought yesterday from our sequester'd dell 

Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 

If living now, could otherwise report 

Of rustic loneliness: that grey-hair'd Orphan — 

So call him, for humanity to him 

No parent was — feelingly could have told, 

In life, in death, what solitude can breed 

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. — 

But your compliance. Sir, with our request 

My words too long have hinder'd." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
In no ungracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said. 
Around him looking, "Where shall I begin ? 
Who shall be first selected from my flock 
Gather'd together in their peaceful fold ? " 
He paused, — and, having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure heaven, he cast them down again 
Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake : 

" To a mysteriously-united pair 
This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 



418 WOEDSWORTH. 

And to the best affections that proceed 

From their conjunction ; consecrate to faith 

In Him who bled for Man npon the cross; 

Hallow'd to revelation ; and no less 

To reason's mandates; and the hopes divine 

Of pure imagination ; — above all, 

To charity and love, that have provided, 

Within these precincts, a capacious bed 

And receptacle, open to the good 

And evil, to the just and the unjust; 

In which they find an equal resting-place : 

Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 

And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 

AVhether their course be turbulent or smooth, 

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 

Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 

And end their journey in the same repose! 

And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know, 
While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
That all beneath us by the wings are cover'd 
Of motherly humanity, outspread 
And gathering all within their tender shade, 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
With this compared, makes a strange spectacle ! 
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 
With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old 
Wandering about in miserable search 
Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
That all the scatter'd subjects which compose 
Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
Of all her climes — these wretched, these depraved, 
To virtue lost, insensible of peace. 
From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, th' oppressor and th' opprest ; 
Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
And slaves who will consent to be destroy'd — 
Were of one species with the shelter'd few. 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand. 
Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot. 
This file of infants ; some that never breathed 
The vital air; others, which, though allow'd 
That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
Administration of the holy rite 



THE EXCURSION. 419 

That lovingly consigns the babe to th' arms 

Of Jesus, and His everlasting care. 

These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 

And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 

Till he begins to smile upon the breast 

That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 

Taken from air and sunshine v/hen the rose 

Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 

The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy ; the bold youth 

Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 

Smitten while all the promises of life 

Are opening round her ; those of middle age, 

Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 

Like pillars fix'd more firmly, as might seem, 

And more secure, by very weight of all 

That, for support, rests on them ; the decay'd 

And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 

Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 

The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last. 

The earliest summon'd, and the longest spared, — 

Are here deposited, with tribute paid 

Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 

As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 

Society were touch'd with kind concern, 

And gentle ^ Xature grieved, that one should die ; ' 

Or, if the change demanded no regret, 

Observed the liberating stroke, — and bless'd. 

And whence that tribute ? wherefore these regards? 
Kot from the naked heart alone of Man, 
(Though claiming high distinction upon Earth, 
As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears. 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness, — no," the philosophic Priest 
Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure ; 
With her two faculties of eye and ear. 
The one by which a creature, whom his sins 
Have render'd prone, can upward look to Heaven ; 
The other that empowers him to perceive 
The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, 
To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims.*^ 

7 This subject is eloquentlv discoursed by Wordsworth in his Essay upon Epitaphs, 
from which I can but quote the following: *" The invention of epitaphs, Wecrer, in 
his Discourse on Funeral Monuments, says rightly, « proceeded from the presage or 



420 WOEDSWORTH. 

Not without siicli assistance could tlie use 
Of these benign observances prevail : 
Thus are they born, thus foster d, thus maintain'd; 
' And by the care prospective of our Avise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
The fluctuation and decay of things, 
Embodied and establish'd these high truths 
In solemn institutions ; — men convinced 
That life is love and immortality, 
The being one, and one the element. 
There lies the channel and original bed, 
From the beginning hollow'd out and scoop'd 
For Man's affections — else betray'd and lost. 
And swallow'd up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
The faith partaking of those holy times. 
Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 
In strife, and tribulation ; and ordain'd, 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 



BOOK SIXTH. 



THE CHURCHYAED AMOKG THE MOUKTAIKS. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped, to gird 
An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
Whereon he sits ! whose deep foundations lie 
In veneration and the people's love ; 
Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. — 
Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 

fore-feeling of immortality, implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the 
scholars of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of the world two 
thousand seven hundred.' — And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of 
immortality in the hxunan soul, Man could never have had awakened in him the de- 
sire to live in the remembrance of his fellows : mere love, or the yearning of kind 
towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or horse perishes in the field, or 
in the stall, by the side of his companions, and is incapable of anticipating the sor- 
row with which his suri'ounding associates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his 
loss : he cannot preconceive this regi-et, he can form no thought of it; and therefore 
cannot possibly have a desire to leave such regret or remembrancte behind liim. Adtl 
to the principle of love which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty of reason 
which exists in man alone; wiU the conjunction of these account for the desire? 
Doubtless it is a necessaiy consequence of this conjunction; yet not I think as a di- 
rect result, but only to be come at thi'ough an intermediate thought, namely, that of 
an intimation or assurance within us, that some part of our nature is imperishable. 
At least the precedence, in the order of birth, of one feeling to the other, is unques- 
tionable." See, also, page 248, note 5. 



THE EXCUBSION^. 421 

With tliis a salutation as devout, 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom rear'd 
In beauty of holiness, with order'd pomp, 
Decent and unreproved. The voice that greets 
The majesty of both shall pray for both; 
That, mutually protected and sustain'd. 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 
And, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers. 
And spires whose " silent finger points to Heaven ; " * 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
' Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
To intercept the Sun's glad beams ; — may ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
What in those holy structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar. 
And human charity, and social love. — 
Thus never shall th' indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, 
Upon the throng'd abodes of busy men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
Exclusively with transitory things) 
An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 

The Poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
Detach'd from pleasure, to the love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
And by ambitious longings undisturb'd ; 
Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 

8 An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches, in flat countries, with 
spire-steeples which, as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with 
silent linger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when they refle(;t the brazen light 
of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame burning heaven- ward. 



422 WORDSWORTH. 

Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 

Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 

Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight 

Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. — 

And, as on Earth it is the doom of truth 

To be perpetually attack'd by foes 

Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 

For her defence, replenished with a band 

Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 

Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 

Of the revolving world's disturbances 

Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert ! 

To meet such trial) fi*om tlieir spiritual sires 

Degenerate ; who, constrain'd to wield the sword 

Of disputation, shrunk not, though assail'd 

With hostile din, and combating in sight 

Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 

And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 

So to declare the conscience satisfied : 

Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 

But, blessing God and praising Him, bequeathed 

With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 

The faith which they by diligence had earn'd, 

Or, through illuminating grace, received, 

For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. 

high example, constancy divine ! 

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
The head and mighty paramount of truths, — 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
For mortal creatures, conquer'd and secured. 

That basis laid ; those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 
Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground; 
Not, as before, like one oppress'd with awe, 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
Then to the Solitary turn'd, and spake: 



THE EXCURSION. 423 

" At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequently haye mark'd 
A Visitor in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
For one who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
From Xature's kindliness received a frame 
Eobust as ever rural labour bred/"' 

The Solitary answer'd : " Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often cross'd 
Each other's path ; but, as th' Intruder seem'd. 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
We met, and pass'd, like shadows. I have heard 
From my good Host that, being crazed in brain 
By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
To cure his malady ! " 

The Vicar smiled, — 
"Alas! before to-morrow's Sun goes down 
His habitation will be here : for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he, then. 
Of pain and grief ? " the Solitary ask'd : 
" Do not believe it ; never could that be ! " 

'* He loved," the Vicar answer'd, '•' deeply loved, 
Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
Eejected, yea, repell'd ; and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's broAv, 'tis but 
A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears 
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
Humiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in : but when 
The tidings came that she whom he had woo'd 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
Then Pity could have scarcely found on Earth 
An object worthier of regard than he, 
In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
Had vanish'd from, his prospects and desires ; 
Not by translation to the heavenly choir 



424 WOEDSWORTH. 

Who have put off their mortal spoils, — ah no ! 
She lives another's wishes to complete : 
" Joy he their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 

* His lot and hers, as misery must be mine ! ' 

Such was that strong concussion: but the Man, 
Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak 
By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
The steadfast quiet natural to a mind 
Of composition gentle and sedate, 
And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. 
To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
O'er which enchain'd by science he had loved 
To bend, he stoutly re-address'd himself, 
Eesolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
With keener appetite (if that might be) 
And closer industry. Of what ensued 
Within the heart no outward signs appear'd, 
Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept 
With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
Such universal change as Autumn makes 
In the fair body of a leafy grove 
Discolour'd, then divested. 

'Tis affirmed 
By poets skill'd in Nature's secret ways 
That Love will not submit to be controlled 
By mastery : and the good Man lack'd not friends 
Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 
A mind in all lieart-mysteries unversed. 

* Go to the hills,' said one, ^ remit awhile 
This baneful diligence : at early morn 

Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods; 

And, leaving it to others to foretell. 

By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 

Of tides, and when the Moon will be eclipsed. 

Do you, for your own benefit, construct 

A calendar of flowers, pluck'd as they blow 

Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 

Th' attempt was made ; — 'tis needless to report 

How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong, 

And an entire simplicity of mind 

A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven ; 

That opens, for such sufferers, relief 

Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 

And doth commend their weakness and disease 

To Nature's care, assisted in her office 



THE EXCURSION. 425 

By all the elements that round her wait 
To generate, to preserve, and to restore; 
And by her beautiful array of forms 
Shedding sweet influence from above ; or pure 
Delight exhaling from the ground they tread/' 

"Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaim'd 
The Wanderer, " I infer that he was heal'd 
By perseverance in the course prescribed." 

" You do not err ; the powers, that had been lost 
By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart 
In rest establish'd ; and the jarring thoughts 
To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
"Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength, 
Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
Time to look back with tenderness on her 
Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
Some farewell words, — with one, but one request; 
That from his dying hand she would accept 
Of his possessions that which most he prized ; 
A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants. 
By his own hand disposed with nicest care. 
In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
Mute register, to him, of time and place. 
And various fluctuations in the breast; 
To her, a monument of faithful love 
Conquer'd, and in tranquillity retained!® 

Close to his destined habitation, lies 
One who achieved a humbler victory. 
Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is 
High in these mountains, that allured a band 
Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
In search of precious ore : they tried, were f oil'd, — 
And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts. 
And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 

9 His story is here truly related. He was a school-fellow of mine for some years, 
le came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very tall, robust, and full- 
frown. This prevented him from falling into the amusements and games of the 
school ; consequently he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or 
luick, but by industry he made a progress moi-e than respectable. His parents not 
)eing wealthy enougli to send him to college wiien lie left Hawkshead, he became a 
schoolmaster, with u view to preparing himself for holy orders. About this time he 
fell in love, as related in the poem, and every thing followed as there described, ex- 
!ept that I do not know exactly when and where he (he(\.— Author's Notes, 1843. 



426 WOKDSWORTH. 

Pass'd on, wliile still his lonely efforts found 

No recompense, derided; and at length 

By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 

By others dreaded, as the luckless thrall 

Of subterranean Spirits feeding- hope 

By various mockery of sight and sound; 

Hope after hope, encouraged and destroy'd. — 

But when the lord of seasons had matured 

The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 

The mountain's entrails offer 'd to his view 

And trembling grasp the long-deferr'd reward. 

Not with more transport did Columbus greet 

A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 

A very hero till his point was gain'd, 

Proved all unable to support the weight 

Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he look'd 

With an unsettled liberty of thought, 

Wishes and endless schemes ; by da3'light walk'd 

Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 

Quaff'd in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 

And truly migiit be said to die of joy!^ 

He vanish'd; but conspicuous to this day 

The path remains that liuk'd his cottage-door 

To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting track, 

Upon the rugged mountain's stony side. 

Worn by his daily visits to and from 

The darksome centre of a constant hope. 

This vestige neither force of beating rain 

Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 

Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; 

And it is named, in memory of th' event, 

The Path of Perseveea^stce." 

" Thou from whom 
Man has his strength," exclaim'd the Wanderer, " 0, 
Do Thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
In this blind world the guiding vein of hope ; 
That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
* Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; ' 

1 The miner lived in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, 
however, rather remarkable, that the strength of mind which had supported hiir 
through liis long unrewarded laboui did not enable him to bear its successful issue 
Several times in the course of mv life, 1 have heard of sudden influxes of wealth be 
ing followed bv derangement; and, in one instance, the shock of good fortune was sc 
great as to produce absolute idiocy. But these all happened where there had beei 
little or no previous effort to acquire the riches, and therefore such a consequence 
might the more naturally be expected, than in the case of the solitary minQr.—Au. 
thor's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCURSION. 427 

Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! " 

" That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, 
"Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust. 
That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
Within the bosom of her awful pile, 
Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh 
Which wafts that prayer to Heaven is due to all, 
Wherever laid, who living fell below 
Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain, 
If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
How would you pity her who yonder rests; 
Him, further off ; the pair who here are laid ; 
But, above all, that mixture of earth^s mould 
Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind 
Eecalls ! 

He lived not till his locks were nipp'd 
By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
Before his temples, prematurely forced 
To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurp'd 
The natural crown that sage Experience wears. 
Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
Or could preform ; a zealous actor, hired 
Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
Into the lists of giddy enterprise, — 
Such was he ; yet, as*^if witliin his frame 
TVo several souls alternately had lodged. 
Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 
xind, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage. 
Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 
As tlie mute swan that floats adown the stream. 
Or, on the waters of th' unruffled lake. 
Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf. 
That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 
And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 
More winningly reserved ! If ye inquire 
How such consummate elegance was bred 
Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice : 
"Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes. 
For the reproof of human vanity. 
Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
Hence, for this Favourite — lavishly endow'd 
AYith personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit. 



423 WORDSWORTH. 

While both, embellishing each other, stood 

Yet further recommended by the charm 

Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song. 

And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 

Fair expectations ; nor, when to tlie world's 

Capacious field forth w^ent th' Adventurer, there 

Were he and his attainments overlook 'd. 

Or scantily rewarded : but all hopes, 

Cherish'd for him, he sufier'd to depart. 

Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimick'd land 

Before the sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 

That sparkling deck'd the morning grass ; or aught 

That luas attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 

Yet, when this Prodigal return'd, the rites 
Of joyful greeting were on him bestow'd, 
Who, by humiliation undeterr'd, 
Souglit for his w^eariness a j^lace of rest 
Within his Father's gates. Whence came he ? — clothec 
In tatter'd garb, from hovels where abides 
Necessity, the stationary host 
Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl 
And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, to which 
He had descended from the proud saloon. 
He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
The wreck of gaiety ! But, soon revived 
In strength, in power refitted, he renew'd - 
His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ino-rate. Thrice he rose. 
Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his A^oice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
By the nice finger of fair ladies touch'd 
In glittering halls — was able to derive 
No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
Who happier for the moment, — who more blithe 
Than this fall'n Spirit ? in those dreary holds 
His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
Of merry-making beggars, — now provoked 
To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
By his malicious wit; then, all enchain'd 
With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
In their oAvn arts outdone, their fame eclipsed, 
As by the very presence of the Fiend 
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 



THE EXCUBSIOlf. 429 

(With shame I speak it,) to her guilty bowers 

Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 

As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 

Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 

Charming the air with skill of hand or voice. 

Listen who would, be wrought upon who might. 

Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. — 

Such the too frequent tenour of his boast 

In ears that relish'd the report ; — but all 

Was from his Parents happily conceal'd ; 

Wlio saw enough for blame and pitying love. 

They also were permitted to receive 

His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 

No more to open on that irksome world 

Where he had long existed in the state 

Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatch'd, 

Though from another sprung, different in kind : 

Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 

Distracted in propensity ; content 

With neither element of good or ill ; 

And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest; 

Of contradictions infinite the slave. 

Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 

One with himself, and one with them that sleep." ^ 

"'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, "strange 
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
That in a land where charity provides 
For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
A man like this should choose to bring his sha,me 
To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
In happy infancy. He could not pine. 
Through lack of converse ; no, — he must have found 
Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
In his dividual being, self-review'd. 
Self-catechised, self -pun ish'd. — Some there are 
Who, drawing near their final home, and much 
And daily longing that the same were reach'd. 
Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
Of kindred mould. Such haply here are laid ? " 

" Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our hills — 
Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 

2 Taken from a person born ancl bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson, and whose 
alents, disposition, and way of life were such as are here delineated. I did not 
:now him, but all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the begin- 
ling of the century. — Author's Notes, 1843. 



430 WORDSWORTH. 

Eound his domain, desirous not alone 
To keep his own, but also to exclude 
All other progeny — doth sometimes lure. 
Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
Th'- unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
Concealment, or seduced Ijy wish to find. 
In place from outward molestation free, 
Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief, 
So their departure only left behind 
Fancies and loose conjectures. Other trace 
Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
Who, from the pressure of their several fates, 
Meeting as strangers in a petty town 
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
Of this far-winding vale, remain'd as friends 
True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust 
To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
With unescutcheon'd privacy interr'd 
Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 
The fire of ancient Caledonia burn'd: 
He, with the foremost whose impatience hail'd 
The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 
Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 
With his brave sword endeavour'd to prevent 
Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
He fled; and when the lenient hand of time 
Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gain'd, 
For his obscured condition, an obscure 
Retreat, within this nook of EngHsh ground. 
The other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
Had fix'd his milder loyalty, and placed 
His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
Tliere where they placed them who in conscience prized 
The new succession, as a line of kings 
Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
Against the dire assaults of papacy 
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
On the distemper'd flood of public life, 
And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
The stream that bears thee forward prove not, soon 
Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 



THE EXCURSION. 431 

Beneath the battlements and stately trees 

That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 

Had moralised on this, and other truths 

Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 

Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 

Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 

When he had crushed a plentiful estate 

By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 

In Britain's senate. Fruitless was th' attempt : 

And, while the uproar of that desperate strife 

Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 

The vanquished Whig, under a borrow'd name, 

(For the mere sound and echo of his own 

-Haunted him with sensations of disgust 

That he was glad to lose,) slunk from the world 

To the deep shade of those untravell'd Wilds 

In which the Scottish Laird had long possess'd 

An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met. 

Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite 

And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 

That losses and vexations, less severe 

Than those which they had severally sustained, 

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 

For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 

My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 

Of that small town encountering thus, they fill'd, 

Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife ; 

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church ; 

And vex'd the market-place. But in the breasts 

Of these opponents gradually was wrought. 

With little change of general sentiment. 

Such leaning towards each other, that their days 

By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 

And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 

Those very bickerings made them love it more. 

A favourite boundary to their lengthen'd Avalks 
This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
Treading their path in sympathy and link'd 
In social converse, or by some short space 
Discreetly parted to preserve the peace. 
One spirit seldom fail'd to extend its sway 
Over both minds, when they awhile had mark'd 
The visible quiet of this holy ground, 
And breathed its soothing air ; — the spirit of hope 
And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 
The field of selfish difference and dispute. 



432 WORDSWORTH. 

And every care which transitory things, 

Earth and the kingdoms of the Earth, create — 

Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 

Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarr'd 

Which else the Christian virtue might have claim'd.^ 

There live who yet remember here to have seen 
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place. 
But, as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
Was disappearing by a swift decay. 
They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
For public use preserved, and thus survive 
As their own private monument : for this 
Was the particular spot, in which they wish'd 
(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
So, where the moulder'd tree had stood, was raised 
Yon structure, framing, with th' ascent of steps 
That to the decorated pillar lead, 
A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn 
Of rustic homeliness : they only aim'd 
To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours. 
Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these words 
Thither we turn'd ; and gather'd, as we read, 
Th' appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couch'd : 
" Time flies ; it is Ms melanclioly tash 
To hring, and hem' away, delusive liopes, 
And reproduce the troubles he destroys. 
But, while Ms blindness thus is occupied. 
Discerning Mortal I do thou serve the luill 
Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace 
Wliich the world wants shall be for thee confirmed I " 

" Smooth verse, inspired by no unletter'd Muse,'' 
Exclaim'd the Sceptic ; " and the strain of thouglat 

3 The conversation leads to the mention of two individuals who hj^ their several 
fortunes were, at different times, driven to take refuge in the small and obscure town 
of Hawkshead. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, as a school- 
bov, and afterwards, I lodged for the space of nearly ten years. The older, the Ja- 
cobite.was named Drummond, and was of a high faniilvin Scotland; the Hanoverian 
Whig hore the name of Vandeput, and might, perhaps, be the descendant of some 
Dutchman wdio had come over in the train of King William. At all events, his zeal 
was such, that he ruined himself bv a contest for the representation of London or 
Westminster, undertaken to support his party, and retired to this conierof the woi-ld, 
selected as it had been by Dnmmiond for that obscurity which, since visiting the 
Lakes became fashionable, it has no longer retixined. — ^uj/tor's i\'oi<o., 1S43. 



THE EXCURSIOiq". 433 

Accords with Nature's language ; — the soft voice 
Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, — not wholly lost, I grant, 
Even upon mine, — the more are we required 
To feel for those among our fellow-men 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
From peace like exiles on some barren rock. 
Their life's appointed prison ; not more free 
Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
- With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say, why 
That ancient story of Prometheus chain'd 
To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
The vulture, th' inexhaustible repast 
Drawn from his vitals ? Say, what meant the woes 
By Tantalus entail'd upon his race, 
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? * 
Fictions in form, but in their substance truths. 
Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey 
For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Muse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
Th' internal pangs, are ready ; the dread strife 
Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 

4 The three myths here so appositely referred to are much too long, in their sev- 
eral particulars, for the compass of a note. That of Prometheus, however, is pretty 
generally known; and the other two agree with it in embodying a common principle, 
namely, the seeming lack of moral discrimination in the government of the world, as 
if gooilness were not the law of the Divine a(hnini strati on. Afllictions and calami- 
ties often faU, in overwhelming measm-e, upon the righteous or the innocent; while 
men of the opposite character often have their portion carved out to them out of the 
best that tliis world has to bestow. Nay, more; good men are sometimes punished, 
apparently, for their virtue and beneficence; while guilt and wrong-doing find im- 
punity, and somethnes even appear to gather the rewards due to goodness. Thus, 
as Davison piits it, in his Discourses on Prophecii, " Conscience and the present consti- 
tution of things are not corresponding terms : the one is not the object of perception 
to the other." Those old mythical embodiments of this principle seem to have had a 
strange fascination for the ancient Greek mind. It is hardly needful to obsei've how, 
in this point, they reflect the moral import of the great Christian Sacrifice. Perhaps 
I should add that *' the line of Thebes " refers to the story of OEdipus, who solved the 
Sphinx's riddle, and tliereby delivered his country from the most terrible calamities, 
but brought unsj)eakable wbes upon hunself. See page 249, note 6. 



434 WORDSWORTH. 

" Though," said the Priest in answer, " these he terms 
Which a diyine philosophy rejects. 
We, whose established and unfailing trust 
Is in controlling Providence, admit 
That through all stations human life abounds 
With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried, 
How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
Our system is not fashion'd to preclude 
That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
And strange disasters ; but I pass them by. 
Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hush'd in peace. 
Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
By the deformities of brutish vice : 
For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
And unaffecting manners might at once 
Be recognised by all " — " Ah ! do not think," 
The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaim'd, 
" Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 
(Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — for whom ?) 
Should breathe a word tending to violate 
Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for' 
In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
Which common h u man -heart edn ess inspires. 
And mortal ignorance and frailty claim. 
Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

" True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this. 
Wisdom enjoins : but if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling 
Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp. 
As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs. 
Or the pellucid lake." 

" Small risk," said I, 
" Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
No evidence appears that they who rest 



THE EXCURSION. 435 

"Within this gronud were covetous of praise. 

Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 

Green is the Chnrch-yard, beautiful and green, 

Kidge rising gently by the side of ridge, 

A heaving surface, almost wholly free 

From interruption of sepulchral stones, 

And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 

And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen tiTist 

The lingering gleam of their departed lives 

Tt) oral record, and the silent heart; 

Depositories faithful and more kind 

Than fondest epitaph : ^ for, if those fail. 

What boots the sculptured tomb ? And who can blame, 

Who rather would not envy, men that feel 

This mutual confidence; if from such source 

The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 

And general humility in death ? 

Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 

From disregard of time's destructive power, 

As only capable to prey on tilings 

Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 

Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
In courting notice ; and the ground all paved 
With commendations of departed worth ; 
Eeading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives. 
Of each domestic charity fulfill'd. 
And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, 
Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 
Among those fair recitals also range. 
Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
Is rank with all unkindness, compass'd round 
With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, 
It was no momentary happiness 
To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 
In envy or detraction is not heard ; 
Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 
Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
Where love and pity tenderly unite 
With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
Of amity and gratitude." 

" Thus sanction'd," 
The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 

5 See a passage on this subject in The Brothers, page 45. 



436 WORDSWORTH. 

My narratives to subjects that excite 

Feelings with these accordant, — love, esteem. 

And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 

A sunbeam introducing among hearts 

Eetired and covert ; so that ye shall have 

Clear images before your gladden'd eyes 

Of Nature's unambitious underwood, 

And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 

I speak of such among my flock as swerved 

Or fell, those only shall be singled out 

Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 

Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; 

To such will we restrict or notice, else 

Better my tongue were mute. 

And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
For, strength to persevere and to support, 
And energy to conquer and repel — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 
That native grandeur of the human soul — • 
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
Or 'mid the factious senate unappall'd 
Whoe'er may sink, or rise, — to sink again, 
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 

There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
^^ A woman rests in peace ; ® surpass'd by few 
In power of mind and eloquent discourse. 
Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth. 
But in projection carried, as she walk'd 
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes ; 
Wrinkled and furrow'd with habitual thought 
Was her broad forehead. ; like the brow of one 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 

6 This person lived at Town-End, and was almost our next neighbour. I have 
little to notice concerning her beyond what is said in the poem. She was a most 
striking instance how far a woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and in cult- 
ure of the mind, those with and among whom she lives, and yet fall belOAv them in 
Christian virtues of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I say it with grief, 
that, in proportion as she excelled in the one, she failed in the other. How frequently 
has one to observe in both sexes the same thing, and how mortifying is the reflec- 
tion!— ylui/ior's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCURSION. 437 

Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
She, 'mid the luimble flowerets of the vale, 
Tower'd like th' imperial thistle, not unfurnish'd 
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
To be admired than coveted and loved. 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, 
Over her comrades ; else their simple sports. 
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
Had cross'd her only to be shunn'd with scorn. 
0, pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthrali'd. 
That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter images by books imprest 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occup}^ their places, and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimm'd by haze, 
Are not to be extinguished, nor impaird. 

Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
Began in honour, gradually obtained 
Eule over her, and vex'd lier daily life, — 
An unremitting, avaricious thrift; 
And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
That held her spirit, in its own despite. 
Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
Constraiu'd forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame conceal'd — 
To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
Her wedded days had open'd with mishap. 
Whence dire dependence. What could she perform 
To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was felt, 
Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 
The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart 
Closed by degrees to charity ; Heaven's blessing 
Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
In ceaseless pains, — and strictest parsimony 
AVhich sternly hoarded all that could be spared. 
From each day's need, out of each day's least gain. 

Thus all was re-establish'd, and a pile 
Constructed, that sufficed for every end. 
Save the contentment of the builder's mind ; 
A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
So placid, so inactive, as content ; 



438 WORDSWORTH. 

A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared 
To th' agitation of a brook tliat runs 
Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
In silent pools, now in strong eddies chain'd ; 
But never to be charm'd to gentleness : 
Its best attainment fits of such repose 
As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 
A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
But fretted, vex'd, and wrought upon, almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? 
She pray'd, she moan'd : her husband's sister watch 'd 
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she rule,' 
This was the death -doom'd Woman heard to say 
In bitterness, *and must she rule and reign. 
Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
Tend what I tended, calling it her own ! ' 
Enough; — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening, 
While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
I well remember, while I pass'd her door 
Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 
Turn'd towards the planet Jupiter that hung 
Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
Roused me, her voice ; it said, * That glorious star 
In its untroubled element will shine 
As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 
And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh 
She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustain'd 
By faith in glory that shall far transcend 
Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 
To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine 
Is divine mercy. She who had rebell'd 
Was into meekness sof ten'd and subdued ; 
Did, after trials not in vain prolong'd. 
With resignation sink into the grave; 
And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
Though, in this Vale, remember'd with deep awe." 



THE EXCURSION. 439 

The Vicar paused ; and toward a seat advanced, 
A long stone-seat, fix'd. in the Church-yard, wall ; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Who seek the House of worship, while the bells 
Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and there 
His office, uninvited, he resumed. 

" As on a sunny bank a tender lamb 
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
Screen'd by its parent, so that little mound 
Lies guarded by its neighbour ; the small heap 
Speaks for itself ; an Infant there doth rest ; 
The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.'' 
If mild discourse, and manners that conferr'd 
A natural diguity on humblest rank ; 
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
That for a face not beautiful did more 
Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
And if religious tenderness of heart. 
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
Shed when the clouds had gathered and distain'd 
The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
If these may make a hallow'd spot of earth 
More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 

Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man, 
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth. 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Which it hath witness'd ; render back an echo 
• Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, 
And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
The Mother oft was seen to stand or kneel 
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 

7 The story that follows was told Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, by the sister 
of this unhappy young woman. Every particular was exactly as I have related. 
The party was not knoAvn to me, though she lived at Hawkshead; but it was after I 
left school. The clergyman who administered comfort to her I knew well. Her sis- 
ter, who told the story, was the wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere ; 
and they were an affectionate pair, and greatly respected by every one who knew 
them.— Author's Notes, 1843. 



440 WOEDSWOETH. 

Who, at lier heart's light bidding, once had moved 
In virgin fearlessness, with step that seem'd 
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
Upon the mountains gemm'd with morning dew. 
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, 
By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl 
Were such as might have quicken'd and inspired 
A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
Startling the golden hills. 

A wide-spread elm 
Stands in our valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
Of giving Avelcome to the first of May 
By dances round its trunk. And if the sky 
Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars 
Or the clear Moon. The queen of these gay sports, 
If not in beauty yet in sprightly air. 
Was hapless Ellen. Ko one touch'd the ground 
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
Methinks, would better suit another place. 

She loved, and fondly deem'd herself beloved. — 
The road is dim, the current unperceived. 
The weakness painful and most pitiful. 
By which a ^drtuous woman, in pure youth. 
May be deliver'd to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. The last time Ellen danced. 
Among her equals, round The Joyful Tkee, 
She bore a secret burthen; and full soon 
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
Alone, within her widow'd Mother's house. 
It was the season of unfolding leaves. 
Of days advancing toward their utmost length, 
And small birds singing happily to mates 
Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power 
Winds pipe through fading woods ; but those blithe notes 
Strike the deserted to the h6art : I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within. — 
Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 



THE EXCURSIOIif. 441 

A thrusli resorts, and annually chants, 

At morn and evening from that naked perch, 

While all the undergrove is thick with leayes, 

A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 

Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. — 

* Ah, why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 

* Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
And reason that in man is wise and good. 

And fear of Him who is a righteous judge ; 

Why do not these prevail for human life, 

To keep two hearts together, that began 

Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 

Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 

To grant, or be received ; while that poor bird, — 

O, come and hear him ! thou who hast to me 

Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature. 

One of God's simple children that yet know not 

The universal Parent, how he sings 

As if he wish'd the firmament of heaven 

Should listen, and give back to him the voice 

Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 

The proclamation that he makes, how far 

His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!" 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Eepeated without loss of simple phrase, 
Which I perused, even as the words had been 
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
Bedropp'd with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
In lonely reading found a meek resource : 
How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 
When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
And find a secret oratory there; 
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
By the last lingering help of th' open sky 
Until dark night dismiss'd her to her bed ! 
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
Th' unconquerable pang of despised love. 

A kindlier passion open'd on her soul 
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
Of unexpected promise, where a grief 



442 WORDSWORTH. 

Or dread Avas all that had been thought of, — joy 
Far livelier than bewilder'd traveller feels, 
Amid a perilous waste that all night long 
Hath harass'd him toiling through fearful storm, 
When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
Of day-spring in the gloomy East reveal'd, 
And greets it with thanksgiving. ^ Till this hour,' 
Thus, in her Mother's hearing, Ellen spake, 
* There was a stony region in my heart ; 
But He at whose command the "parched rock 
Was smitten, and pour'd forth a quenching stream, 
Hath soften'd that obduracy, and made 
Unlook'd-for gladness in the desert place, 
To save the perisliing ; and, lienceforth, I breathe 
The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake, 
' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear 

Who bore me; and hath pray'd for me in vain; — 
Yet not in vain ; it shall not be in vain.' 
She spake, nor was th' assurance unfulfill'd ; 
And, if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
They stay'd not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
They soon were proud of ; tended it and nursed ; 
A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands; 
Or a choice shrub, which he who passes by 
With vacant mind not seldom may observe 
Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

Through four months' space the Infant drew its food 
From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and cross'd 
The fond affection. She no more could bear 
By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
On a kind parent willing to forget 
Their slender means : so, to that parent's care 
Trusting her child, she left their common home. 
And undertook with dutiful content 
A Foster-mother's office. 

'Tis, perchance. 
Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
The natural feeling of equality 
Is by domestic service unimpair'd ; 
Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
From sense of degradation, not the less 
Th' ungentle mind can easily find means 



THE EXCURSIOK. 443 

To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
Which hapless Ellen now was doom'd to feel: 
For (blinded by an over-anxions dread 
Of such excitement and divided thought 
As with her office would but ill accord) 
The pair whose infant she was bound to nurse 
Forbade her all communion with her own : 
Week after week the mandate they enforced. — 
So near ! yet not allow'd upon that sight 
To fix her eyes, — alas ! 'twas hard to bear ! 
But worse affliction must be borne, far worse ; 
For 'tis Heaven's will that, after a disease 
Begun and ended within three days' space, 
Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaim'd, 
Her own — deserted child ! Once, only once, 
She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
Permission to attend its obsequies. 
She reacli'd the house, last of the funeral train ; 
And some one, as she enter'd, having chanced 
To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
^ Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
Of anger never seen in her before, 
* Nay, ye must wait my time ! ' and down she sate, 
And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
Until at length her soul was satisfied. 

You see the Infant's Grave ; and to this spot, 
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
On whatsoever errand, urged her steps : 
Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
So call her; for not only she bewail'd 
A mother's loss, but mourn'd in bitterness 
Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye ! — 
At length the parents of the foster-child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renew'd and could not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined, 
I fail'd not to remind them that they err'd ; 
For holy Nature might not thus be cross'd, » 

Thus wrong'd in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded, — 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapp'd, 



444 WORDSWOETH. 

And the flower droop'd ; as every eye could see, 

It hung its head in mortal languishment. 

Aided by this appearance, I at length 

PrevaiFd ; and, from those bonds released, she went 

Home to her mother's house. 

The Youth was fled; 
The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
And little would his presence, or proof given 
Of a relenting soul, have now avaiFd; 
For, like a shadow, he was pass'd away 
From Ellen's thoughts; had perish'd to her mind 
For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love. 
Save only those which to their common shame, 
And to liis moral being appertain'd : 
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
A heavenly comfort; there she recognised 
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
There, and, as seem'd, there only. 

She had built, 
Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
In blindness all too near the rivei-'s edge : 
That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
Had swept away ; and now her Spirit long'd 
For its last flight to Heaven's security. 
The bodily frame wasted from day to day ; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
Her mind she strictly tutor'd to find peace 
And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought. 
And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
Upon her own unworthiness. To me. 
As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
Her heart she open'd ; and no pains were spared 
To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on Earth ! 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
A sun-like beauty, and appear'd divine ! 
May I not mention that, within those walls, 
In due observance of her pious wish. 
The congregation join'd with me in prayer 
For her soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. — 
Much did she suffer: but, if any friend. 
Beholding her condition, at the sight 
Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 



THE EXCURSIOIT. 445 

She stiird them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
' He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
TVill mercifully take me to Himself.' 
So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit pass'd 
Into that pure and unknown world of love 
Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 
The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
That each had listen'd with, his inmost heart. 
For me, th' emotion scarcely was less strong 
Or less benign than that which I had felt 
When, seated near my venerable Friend 
Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
' The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath, 
With the neglected house to which she clung. — 
I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confess'd the power of nature. Pleased though sad. 
More pleased than sad, the grey-hair'd Wanderer sate ; 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacious and serene ; his blameless life. 
His knoAvledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silence, saying : 

" Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have err'd. 
This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
With such, in their affliction. Ellen's fate, 
Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart. 
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
Of Wilfred Armatliwaite ? " 

The Vicar answer'd, . 
" Fn that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall. 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known. 
Of reconcilement after deep oft'ence, — 
There dotli he rest. No theme his fate supplies 
For the smooth glozings of th' indulgent world; 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 



446 WORDSWORTH. 

And venial error, robb'd of competence, 

And her obsequious shadow, j^eace of mind. 

He craved a substitute in troubled joy; 

Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving 

Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 

That which he had been weak enough to do 

"Was misery in remembrance; he Avas stung, 

Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 

Of wife and children stung to agony. 

Wretched at home, he gain'd no peace abroad ; 

Eanged through the mountains, slept upon the earth 

Ask'd comfort of the open air, and found 

No quiet in the darkness of the night, 

No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 

His flock he slighted : his paternal fields 

Became a clog to him, whose spirit wish'd 

To fly, — but whither ? And this gracious Church, 

That wears a look so full of peace and hope 

And love, benignant mother of the vale, 

How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 

She was to him a sickness and reproach. 

Much to the last remain'd unknown : but this 

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died; 

Though pitied among men, absolved by God, 

He could not find forgiveness in himself ; 

Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 

Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
And from her grave. — Behold — upon that ridge 
That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 
Carries into the centre of the vale 
Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt; 
And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 
(Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
Of many helpless Children. I begin 
With words that might be prelude to a tale 
Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
See daily in that happy family. — 
Bright garland form they for the pensive brow 
Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
Those six fair Daughters, budding yet, — not one, 
Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 
That Father was, and filFd with anxious fear, 
Now, by exjoerience taught, he stands assured 
That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 



THE EXCURSION. 447 

Of what He seems to take ; or gives it back, 

Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 

He gives it — tlie boon produce of a soil 

Which our endeavours have refused to till. 

And hope hath never water 'd. The Abode 

Whose grateful owner can attest these truths. 

Even were the object nearer to our sight, 

W^ould seem in no distinction to surpass 

The rudest habitations. Ye might think 

That it had sprung self -raised from earth, or grown 

Out of the living rock, to be adorn'd 

By Nature only ; but, if thither led. 

Ye would discover, then, a studious work 

Of many fancies prompting many hands. 

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose 
There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
Eoof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall ; 
And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with tlie year, 
A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights. 
Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 
All that a boy could do, but with delight 
More keen and prouder daring ; yet hath she, 
Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, 
By sacred charter, holden for her use. — 
These, and whatever else the garden bears 
Of fruit or flower, permission ask'd or not, 
I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 
A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
Of bees around their range of shelter'd hives 
Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill 
That sparkling thrids the rocks attunes his voice 
To the pure course of human life which there 
Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
Of night is falling round my steps, then most 
This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 
(Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 
With prospect of the company within. 
Laid open through the blazing window: — there 
I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
Spinning amain as if to overtake 



448 WOKDSWOETH. 

The never-lialting time ; or, in her turn, 
Teacliing some Novice of the sisterhood 
That skill in this or other household work 
AVhich, from her Father's hononr'd hand, herself, 
While she was yet a little one, had learned. 
Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay; 
And the whole house seems fill'd with gaiety. 
Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed. 
The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
I turn'd, that ye in mind might witness where. 
And how, her Spirit yet survives on Earth!" 



BOOK SEVEIS^TH. 



THE CHURCH-YAKD AMONG THE MOUKTAIKS. 

While thus from theme to theme th' Historian pass'd. 

The words he utter'd, and the scene that lay 

Before our eyes, awaken'd in my mind 

Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours, 

When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 

(What time the splendour of the setting Sun 

Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 

On Cader Idris. or huge Penmanmaur,) 

A wandering Youth, I listen'd with delight 

To pastoral melody or warlike air. 

Drawn from the chords of th' ancient British harp. 

By some accompli sh'd Master, while he sate 

Amid the quiet of the green recess. 

And there did inexhaustibly dispense 

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 

Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 

Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 

From youth or maiden, or some honour'd chief 

Of his compatriot villagers, (that hung 

Around him, drinking in th' impassion'd notes 

Of the time-hallow'd minstrelsy,) required 

For the heart's ease or pleasure.^ Strains of power 

8 In his longer poems, Wordsworth quite too often well-nigh strangles the proper 
effect of his workmanship with an unfortiinate prolixity both of language and of 
thoiight; gathering-in point after point tlvit Avere better left out, and running his 
sentences into inti-icacy and obscurity. Here is an apt instance of the fault. Much 
of clearness, without any loss of poetry, would, 1 think, be gained in this passage, if 
about half the lines were sti-ickcn out. His nianyijrosaic passages I do not complain 
of, for Milton has many such also, and so have all great poets; for the great poet and 
the little poet differ especially in this, that the former, if he has a prosaic thing to say. 
Is content to say it prosaically, whereas the latter must trick it out in the fineriea 
of •* poetic diction." 



THE EXCURSIOiT. 449 

Were tliey to seize and occupy the sense ; 

But to a liiglier mark than song can reach 

Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 

Which overflow 'd the soul was pass'd away, 

A consciousness remained that it had left, 

Deposited upon the silent shore 

Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 

That shall not die, and cannot he destroy'd. 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
Said I, ^' like surges heaving in the wind 
Along the surface of a mountain pool : 
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold 
Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
Unsociably sequester'd, and encroaching 
On the smooth play-ground of the village-school ? " 

The Vicar answer'd : '' No disdainful pride 
In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
Of strange or tragic accident, hath help'd 
To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 
Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 
The length of road that from yon mountain's base 
Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 
Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 
Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
The cultured fields ; and up the heathy waste 
Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine. 
Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 
That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft. 
By which the road is hidden, also hides 
A cottage from our view ; though I discern 
(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
The smokeless chimney-top. 

All unembower'd 
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
By which our northern wilds could then be cross'd; 
And into most of these secluded vales 
Was no access for w^ain, heavy or light. 
So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
With store of household goods in panniers slung 
On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells. 
And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
That, with like burthen of effects most prized 



450 WORDSWORTH. 

Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years ; 
But still methinks I see them as they pass'd 
In order, drawing toward their wish'd-for home. 
Rock'd by the motion of a trusty ass 
Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, 
Each in his basket nodding drowsily; 
Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, 
Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 
And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
A woman of soft speech and gracious smile. 
And with a lady's mien. From far they came, 
Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 
A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheer'd 
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
And freak put on, and arch word dropp'd, to swell 
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
That gather'd round the slowly-moving train. 
'Whence do they come ? and with what errand charged? 
Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
Who pitch tlieir tents under the green-wood tree ? 
Or Strollers are they, furnish'd to enact 
Eair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
And, by that whisker'd tabby's aid, set forth 
The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
When the next village hears the show announced 
By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was the growth 
Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
On many a staring countenance portray'd 
Of boor or burgher, as they march 'd along. 
And more than once their steadiness of face 
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 
And questions in authoritative tone, 
Erom some staid guardian of the public peace, 
Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
In his suspicious wisdom ; of tener still, 
By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
From traveller halting in his own despite, 
• A simple curiosity to ease : 
Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheer'd 
Their grave migration, the good pair would tell, 
With undiminish'd glee, in hoary age. 

A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
(The hour of life to which he then v/as brought,) 



THE EXCUKSION. 451 

Had been iiTegular, I might say, wild ; 

By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 

Too little check'd. An active, ardent mind ; 

A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 

To cheat tlie sadness of a rainy day ; 

Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 

A generous spirit, and a body strong 

To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl, — 

Had earn'd for him sure welcome, and the rights 

Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 

Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 

Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 

Withdrawn, to while away the summer hours 

In condescension among rural guests. 

"With these high comrades he had revell'd long, 
Frolick'd industriously, a simple Clerk 
By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
Till the heart sicken'd. So, each loftier aim 
Abandoning and all his showy friends. 
For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
He turn'd to this secluded chapelry. 
That had been offer'd to his doubtful choice 
By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare 
They found the cottage, their allotted home ; 
Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 
With which the Cure not long had been endow'd: 
And far remote the chapel stood, — remote. 
And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable, 
Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening 
Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers 
Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 
Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 
On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
Or the necessity that fix'd him here ; 
Apart from old temptations^ and constrain'd 
To jiunctual labour in his sacred charge. 
See him a constant preacher to the poor! 
And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will. 
The sick in body or distrest in mind ; 
And by as salutary change compell'd 
To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
With no engagement in his thoughts more proud 
Or splendid than his garden could afford. 
His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 
Or the wild brooks ; from which he now return'd 



452 WORDSWORTH. 

Contented to partake the quiet meal 

Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 

And three fair Children, plentifully fed, 

Though simply, from their little household farm; 

Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 

By nature yielded to his practised hand, — 

To help the small but certain comings-in 

Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 

Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 

A charitable door. 

So days and years 
Pass'd on : — the inside of that rugged house 
Was trimm'd and brighten'd by the Matron^s care. 
And gradually enrich'd with things of price, 
Which might be lack'd for use or ornament. 
What though no soft and costly sofa there 
Insidiously stretch'd out its lazy length. 
And no vain mirror glitter'd upon the walls ; 
Yet were the windows of the low abode 
By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
Eepell'd the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds; 
Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants. 
That creep along the ground with sinuous trail, 
Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool, 
But tinctured daintily with florid hues. 
For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
CoYcr'd the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone 
With which the j)arlour-floor, in simplest guise 
Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 

Those pleasing w^orks the Housewife's skill produced 
Meanwhile th' unsedentary Master's hand 
Was busier Avith his task, — to rid, to plant. 
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
A thriving covert! And when wishes, form'd 
In youth, and sauction'd by the riper mind, 
Restored me to my native valley, here 
To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side, 
Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast ; 
While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. 
Time, which had thus afforded willing help 



THE EXCURSIOIT. 453 

To beautify with Nature's fairest growths 
This rustic tenement, had gently shed 
Upon its Master's frame a wintry grace ; 
The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 

But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
Retain'd a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
Few likings had he dropp'd, few pleasures lost ; 
Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
And still his harsher passions kept their hold, — 
xYnger and indignation. Still he loved 
The sound of titled names, and talk'd in glee 
Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends : 
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
Uproused by recollected injury, rail'd 
At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. — 
Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will, 
And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years. 
Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
To that still region whither all are bound. 
Him might we liken to the setting Sun 
As seen not seldom on some gusty day. 
Struggling and bold, and shining from the West 
With an inconstant and unmellow'd light : 
She w^as a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this; 
I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
That now divides the pair, or, rather say, 
That still unites them, j)raises, like heaven's dew. 
Without reserve descending upon both. 

Our very first in eminence of years 
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale ! 
And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
Sparing both old and young in that abode. 
Suddenly then they disappear'd : not twice 
Had Summer scorch'd the fields ; not twice had fallen, 
On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow, 
Before the greedy visiting was closed, 



454 WORDSWORTH. 

And the long-privileged house left empty, — swept 

As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 

Had been among them ; all was gentle death. 

One after one, with intervals of peace. 

A happy consummation ! an accord 

Sweet, perfect, to be wish'd for ! save that here 

Was something which to mortal sense might sound 

Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 

The oldest, he was taken last, survived 

When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 

His Daughter, and that late and high-j)rized gift, 

His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 

^ All gone, all vanish* d ! he deprived and bare. 
How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
What will become of him ? ' we said, and mused 
In sad conjectures, — ' Shall we meet him now 
Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
AVith music ? ^ (for he had not ceased to touch 
The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
* What titles will he keep ? will he remain 
Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 
A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
Even to the last!' — Such was he, unsubdued. 
But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while. 
And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
Of unsunn'd griefs, too many and too keen. 
Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud. 
Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
For noontide solace on the summer grass. 
The warm lap of his mother earth : and so. 
Their leiiient term of separation past, 
That family (whose graves you there behold) 
By yet a higher privilege once more 
Were gather'd to each other." ^ 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words ; 

9 The clergyman and his family described in the beginning of this Book were, 
during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to 
except our very nearest neighbours. I have entered so particularly into the main 



THE EXCURSION. 455 

Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 

Lest in those passages of life were some 

That might have touch'd the sick heart of his Friend 

Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 

His own firm spirit in degree deprest 

By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 

Thus silence broke : " Behold a thoughtless Man 

From vice and premature decay preserved 

By useful habits, to a fitter soil 

Transplanted ere too late. The hermit, lodged 

Amid th' untrodden desert, tells his beads. 

With each repeating its allotted prayer, 

And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 

Smooth task with Ms compared, whose mind could string, 

Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 

Of keen domestic anguish ; and beguile 

A solitude, unchosen, unprofess'd; 

Till gentlest death released him. 

Far from us 
Be the desire, too curiously to ask 
How much of this is but the blind result 
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
And what to higher powers is justly due. 
But you. Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale 
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
Eetired from notice, lost in attributes 
Of reason, honourably effaced by debts 
Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe. 
And conquests over her dominion gain'd, 
To which her frowardness must needs submit. 
In this one Man is shown a temperance proof 
Against all trials ; industry severe 
And constant as the motion of the day; 
Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 
That might be deem'd forbidding, did not there 
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; 
Forbearance, charity in deed and thought. 
And resolution competent to take 
Out of the bosom of simplicity 
All that her holy customs recommend, 
And the best ages of the world prescribe. 

points of their histoiy, that I will barely testify in prose that (with the single excep- 
tion of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere, wliich, however, was exactly 
copied from real life) the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as 
words can make it. There was much talent in the family, and the eldest son was 
distingmshed for poetical talent. — A uthor's Notes, 1843. 



456 WORDSWORTH. 

Preaching, administering, in every work 

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 

Of worldly intercourse between man and man, 

And in his humble dwelling, he appears 

A labourer, with moral virtue girt, 

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown'd." 

"Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for whom 
This portraiture is sketch'd. The great, the good, 
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne, 
Honour assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful, 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
In a dependent chapelry that lies 
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild. 
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, 
And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
Into its graveyard wall ere long be borne 
That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone 
May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 
A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
With images attendant on the sound ; 
Then shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 
In utter night ; and of his course remain 
'No cognizable vestiges, no more 
Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 
To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." ^ 

The Pastor, press'd by thoughts which round his theme 
Still linger'd, after a brief pause resumed : 
" Noise is there not enough in doleful war. 
But that the Heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love. 
And, in requited passion, all too much 
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear. 
But that the minstrel of the rural shade 

1 In connection with one of his other poems, Wordsworth gives, at considerable 
length, a memoir of tlie good man whose character is here briefly sketched. He was 
the Rev. Robert Walker ; born in 1709, the j^oiingest of twelve children ; being sickly- 
in his youth, he was "brought up a scholar;" became a schoolmaster, and while 
thus occupied fitted himself "for holy orders ; entered upon the curacy of Seathwaite 
in 1735, and there remained till his death, sixty-six years aftenvards. At first, the 
income of his curacy was only £5 a year, and it never exceeded £50. Yet he brought 
up a family of eight children, all that lived out of twelve, and educated them well, 
and lell; £2000 to his family. Withal he was distinguished for his hospitality and 
generosity ; his house is described as a nursery of virtue ; his family as all industri- 
ous and amiable. He himself educated, without charge, the children of the whole 
parish, at the same time spinning wool to clothe his household; and was "at once 
tlie pastor, lawyer, and scrivener for the whole district." 



THE EXCUESION". 457 

Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 

The perturbation in the suffering breast, 

And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 

Ah ! who (and with such rapture as befits 

The hallow'd theme) will rise and celebrate 

The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 

His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 

His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ? 

That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 

Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 

And like the soft infections of the heart. 

By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 

Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 

Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 

And grave encouragement, by song inspired. — 

Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 

The memory of the just survives in Heaven ; 

And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 

Of what lies here confines us to degrees 

In excellence less difficult to reach, 

And milder worth : nor need we travel far 

From those to whom our last regards were paid, 

For such example. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve. 
Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path 
Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies. 
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of soul; 
And this deep mountain-valley was to him 
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With startling summons ; not for his delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
Murmur'd tlie labouring bee. When stormy winds 
Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 



458 WORDSWORTH. 

Were all things silent, wheresoe'er lie moved. 

Yet, by the solace of liis own pure thoughts 

Upheld, he diiteonsly pursued the round 

Of rural labours ; the steep mountain-side 

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 

The plough he guided, and the scythe he sway'd; 

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 

Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 

All watchful and industrious as he was, 

He wrought not : neither field nor flock he own'd: 

No wish for wealth had place within his mind; 

Kor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 

Though born a younger brother, need Avas none 
That from the floor of his paternal home 
He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
Of rights to him ; but he remain'd well pleased. 
By the pure bond of independent love, 
An inmate of a second family ; 
The fellow-labourer and friend of him 
To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
That press'd upon his brother's house ; for books 
Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
Of whose society the blameless Man 
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. 
Even to old age, with unabated charm 
Beguiled his leisure hours ; ref resh'd his thoughts ; 
Beyond its natural elevation raised 
His introverted spirit ; and bestow'd 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night. 
The stormy day, each had its own resource ; 
Song of the Muses, sage historic tale. 
Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
Announcing immortality and joy 
To the assembled spirits of just men 
Made perfect, and from injury secure. — 
Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field. 
To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 
No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint : 
And they who were about him did not fail 
In reverence or in courtesy ; they prized 
His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles. 
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance. 



THE EXCUKSIOi^". 459 

Were met with answering sympathy and love. 

At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
A slow disease insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature : and a feAv short steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitioiisly relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward aids. 
And in what pure contentedness of mind. 
The sad privation was by him endured. 
And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound 
Was wasted on the good Man's living ear. 
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 
And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.^ 

Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things I 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
Whose sacred influence, spread thro' earth and heaven, 
We all too thanklessly participate. 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complain'd; 
Ask of the channell'd rivers if they held 
A safer, easier, more determined course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
But, timely warn'd, He would have stay'd his steps, 
Protected, say enlighten'd, by his ear ; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endanger'd than a man whose eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. No floweret blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills. 
Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enrich'd with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 

2 His epitaph may be seen at Ha wes- water, and his qualities of mind and heart, 
and their benign influence in conjunction with his privations, I had from liis relatives 
on the &^ot.— Author's Notes, 1843. 



460 WORDSWOETH. 

Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
Methinks I see him, — how his eye-balls rolFd, 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness pair'd, — 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of the whole countenance alive with thought. 
Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power. 
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
Abash'd, and tender pity overawed." ^ 

"A noble, and, to unreflecting minds, 
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
" Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
Upon the Earth that faculties, which seem 
Extinguish 'd, do not therefore cease to be. 
And to the mind among her poAvers of sense 
This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
But for remoter purposes of love 
And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
That to th' imagination may be given 
A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
Darkness is banish'd from the realms of death. 
By man's imperishable spirit, quell'd. 
Unto the men who see not as we see 
Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
And know we not that from the blind have flow'd 
The highest, holiest raptures of the lyre, 
And wisdom married to immortal verse ? " 

Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
Lying insensible to human praise. 
Love, or regret, — wliose lineaments would next 
Have been portray'd, I guess not ; but it chanced 
That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate, 
A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
Whose sharp descent confounded their array. 
Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 

" Here," said the Pastor, '• do we muse, and mourn 
The waste of death ; and, lo ! the giant oak 

3 The Blind Man was John Goiigh, of Kendal, a man known far beyond his neigh- 
bourhood, for his talents and attaiimients in natural histoiy and science.— ^wt/tor'a 
Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCUBSION. 461 

Stretcli'd on his bier, — that massy timber- wain ; 
Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 

He was a peasant of the lowest class : 
Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
Of Winter cannot thin ; tlie fresh air lodged 
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
And he return'd our greeting with a smile. 
When he had pass'd, the Solitary spake : 
" A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
And confident to-morrows ; with a face 
Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 
Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
His gestures note, — and, hark ! his tones of voice 
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks/' 

The Pastor answer'd: "You have read him well. 
Year after year is added to his store 
With sile7it increase : Summers, AVinters, — past, 
Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say. 
Ten Summers and ten Winters of a space 
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
The obligation of an anxious mind, 
A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 
Possess'd, like outskirts of some large domain, 
By any one more thought of than by him 
Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord! 
Yet is the creature rational ; endow'd 
With foresight ; hears, too, every sabbath-day. 
The Christian promise with attentive ear; 
Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
Reject the incense offered up by him. 
Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 
In grove or pasture, — cheerfulness of soul, 
From trepidation and repining free. 
How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 

This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
Is paid without reluctance ; but, in truth," 
(Said the good Vicar with a fond half -smile,) 
" I feel at times a motion of despite 
Towards one whose bold contrivances and skill. 
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 



462 WORDSWORTH. 

One after one, their proudest ornaments. 

Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 

Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 

In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 

Light birch, aloft upon th' horizon's edge, 

A veil of glory for th' ascending Moon ; 

And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damp'd. 

And on whose forehead inaccessible 

The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 

Launch'd into Morecamb-bay, to Mm hath owed 

Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 

The loftiest of her pendants ; he from park 

Or forest fetch'd th' enormous axle-tree 

That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles: 

And the vast engine labouring in the mine, 

Content with meaner prowess, must have lack'd 

The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 

If his undaunted enterprise had fail'd 

Among the mountain coves. 

Yon household fir, 
A guardian planted to fence off the blast. 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were forgot ; 
That sycamore, which annually holds 
Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
The fleece-encumber'd flock ; the Joyful Elm, 
Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May ; 
And the Lord's Oak, — would plead their several rights 
In vain, if he were master of their fate ; 
His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
But, green in age and lusty as he is. 
And promising to keep his hold on Earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world. 
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 
!N^ow from the living pass we once again: 
From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your thoughts ; 
From Age, that often unlamented drops. 
And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long ! — 
Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 
Of Gold-riil side ; and, when the hope had ceased 
Of other progeny, a Daughter then 



THE EXCURSION. 463 

Was given, tlie crowning bounty of the whole ; 
And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 
Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 
With which by nature every mother's soul 
Is stricken in the moment when her throes 
Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
Which tells her that a living child is born ; 
And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest, 
That the dread storm is weather'd by them both. 

The Father, — him at this unlook'd-f or gift 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born girl, 
From cups replenish'd by his joyous hand. — 
Those seven fair brothers variously were moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
But most of all and with most thankful mind 
The hoary grandsire felt himself enrich'd ; 
A happiness that ebb'd not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
Once every day he duteously repair'd 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
For in that female infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed wife; 
Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name : 
Full blest he was ; * Another Margaret G-reen,' 
Oft did he say, * was come to Gold-rill side.' 

0, pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
Itself had been unlook'd-forl 0, dire stroke 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
Just as the Child could totter on the floor. 
And, by some friendly finger's help upstay'd. 
Range round the garden walk, while she perchance 
Was catching at some novelty of Spring, 
Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
Drawn by the sunshine, — at that hopeful season 
The winds of March, smiting insidiously. 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 



464 WORDSWORTH. 

Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforewarn'd, 

The household lost their pride and soul's delight. — 

But time hath power to soften all regrets. 

And pra3^er and thought can bring to worst distress 

Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 

Fail not to spring from either Parent/s eye 

Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own. 

Yet this departed Little-one, too long 

The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 

In what may now be calFd a peaceful bed.* 

On a bright day — so calm and bright, it seem'd 
To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair — 
These mountains echo'd to an unknown sound ; 
A Yolley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down into the hollow of that grave. 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods. 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved. 
To me as jjrecious as my own ! — Green herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
Eeminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
Thy image disappear ! 

The Mountain-ash 
Xo eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Deck'd with autumnal berries, that outshine 
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have mark'd. 
By a brook-side or solitary tarn. 
How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brighten'd round her. In his native vale 
Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ii;Q^enuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fiiir eyes, by his capacious brow, 

4 Of the Infant's grave, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under mj 
o\vtl observation ; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage lire 
must often have observed like instances of the worMng of the domestic affectioua. — 
Author s Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCURSION. 465 

By all the graces Avitli wliicli INTatiire's hand 

Had lavishly array'd him. As old bards 

Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 

Pan or Apollo, veil'd in hnman form ; 

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade 

Discoyer'd in their own despite to sense 

Of mortals, (if such fables without blame 

May find chance-mention on this sacred ground,) 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 

And through th' impediment of rural cares. 

In him reyeal'd a scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 

In him the spirit of a hero walk'd 

Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 

Whizz'd from the Stripling's arm ! If touch'd by him, 

Th' inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 

Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve. 

Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 

The indefatigable fox had learn'd 

To dread his perseverance in the chase. 

With admiration would he lift his eyes 

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 

Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 

Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead. 

The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 

The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves. 

And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 

Fix'd at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 

Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 

And lived by his forbearance. 

From the coast 
Of France a boastful Tyrant hurl'd his threats ; 
Our Country mark'd the preparation vast 
Of hostile forces ; and she call'd — with voice 
That fiird her plains, that reach'd her utmost shores. 
And in remotest vales was heard — to arms! 
Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 
The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed. 
That flash'd uncouthly through the woods and fields. 
Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire. 
And graced with shining weapons, weekly march'd 
From this lone valley to a central spot 
Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice 
Of the surrounding district, they might learn 
The rudiments of war; ten — hardy, strong. 



466 WORDSWORTH. 

And valiant; but young Oswald, like a chief, 

And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
From their shy solitude, to face the world. 
With a gay confidence and seemly pride; 
Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound 
To most laborious service, though to them 
A festival of unencumber d ease ; 
The inner spirit keeping holiday. 
Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 

Oft have I mark'd him, at some leisure hour, 
Stretch'd on the grass, or seated in the shade, 
Among his fellows, while an ample map 
Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
From which the gallant teacher would discourse, 
I^ow pointing this way, and now that. ' Here flows,' 
Thus would he say, Hhe Khine, that famous stream! 
Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea, 
A mightier river, winds from realm to realm ; 
And, like a serpent shows his glittering back 
Bespotted with innumerable isles : 
Here reigns the Eussian, there the Turk ; observe 
His capital city ! ' Thence, along a tract 
Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears. 
His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged; 
Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 
On which the sons of mighty Germany 
Were taught a base submission. — 'Here behold 
A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 
Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods. 
And mountains white with everlasting snow ! ' — 
And, surely, he that spake with kindling brow 
Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
Of that young peasantry, who in our days 
Have fought and perish'd for Helvetia's rights, — 
Ah, not in vain ! — or those who in old time, 
For work of happier issue, to the side 
Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 
When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
Descended from Judean heights, to march 
With righteous Joshua ; nor appear'd in arms 
When grove was fell'd, and altar was cast down, 
And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed. 
And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

The Pastor, even as if by these last words 



THE EXCURSION. 467 

Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, 
Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his steps 
We follow'd : and my voice with joy exclaim'd : 
" Power to th' Oppressors of the world is given, 
A might of which they dream not. 0, the curse, 
To be th' awakener of divinest thoughts. 
Father and founder of exalted deeds; 
And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, 
The liberal donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
With pity mix'd, astonishment with scorn ! " 

When this involuntary strain had ceased. 
The Pastor said : " So Providence is served ; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 
Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
AVhich the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast 
Pity away, soon shall ye quake with /e^r / 
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 
Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore. 
By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening the sun. 

But less impatient thoughts, 
And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
This hallow'd grave demands, where rests in peace 
A humble champion of the better cause ; 
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he ask'd 
No higher name ; in whom our country show'd. 
As in a favourite son, most beautiful. 
In spite of vice and misery and disease. 
Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
England, the ancient and the free, appear'd 
In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. — 
No more of this, lest I offend his dust ; 
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 

One day, — a Summer's day of annual pomp 
And solemn chase, — from morn to sultry noon 



468 WORDSWORTH. 

His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
The red-deer driven along its native heights 
With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
Eeturn'd Avith sinews weaken'd and relaxed, 
Tliis generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
' Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
Seized him that self-same night ; and through the space 
Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrench'd 
Till nature rested from her work in death. 
To him, thus snatch'd away, his comrades paid 
A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
Bright was the Sun, the sky a cloudless blue, 
A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, 
From some commanding eminence had look'd 
Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
A glittering spectacle ; but every face 
Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been moist 
With tears that wept not then ; nor were the few. 
Who from their dwellings came not forth to join 
In this sad service, less disturb'd than we. 
They started at the tributary peal 
Of instantaneous tliunder which announced. 
Through the still air, the closing of the Grave ; 
And distant mountains echo'd with a sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before ! " * 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
The prolongation of some still response. 
Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
Its rights and virtues, — by that Deity 
Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
With patriotic confidence and joy. 
And, at the last of those memorial Avords, 

5 ThivS young volunteer bore the name of D.awson, and was younger brother, if I 
am not mistaken, to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes an account is given 
towards tlie beginning of the preceding Book. Tlie father of the family 1 knew well; 
he was a man of literary education and considerable experience in soc"iety, niu(;h be- 
yond what was common among the inhabitants of the vale. The pi-ematiire death of 
this gallant young man was much lamented ; and, as an attendant iipon the funeral, 
I mvself witnessed the ceremony, and the effect of it, as described in theijoem. — Au' 
thor's Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCURSIOJ?^. 469 

The pining Solitary turn'd aside; 
Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
For those cold humours of habitual spleen 
That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
To self -abuse a not ineloquent tongue. — 
Eight toward the sacred JEdifice his steps 
Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
Intent upon a monumental stone. 
Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall. 
Or rather seem'd to have grown into the side 
Of the rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
Where Nature works in wild and craggy spots. 
Are seen incorporate with the living rock, — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
Exclaim'd : 

'"' The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil; " then, letting fall his voice 
While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired. 
And fix'd his home in this sequester'd vale. 
'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, 
Or as a stranger reach'd this deep recess, 
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
To Scotland's Court in service of his Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen 
With transient observation ; and thence caught 
An image fair which, brightening in his soul 
When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
Languish'd beneath accumulated years. 
Had power to draw him from the world, resolved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To Avhich his peaceful fancy oft had turn'd. 

Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
The Knight arrived, w4th spear and shield, and borne 
Upon a Charger gorgeously bedeck'd 
With broider'd housings. And the lofty Steed — 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 



470 WORDSWORTH. 

Whom ho, in gratitude, let loose to range 

In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 

Of admiration and delightful awe, 

By those untravell'd Dalesmen. With less pride, 

Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 

They saw a mansion at his bidding rise. 

Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 

Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt 

And, in that mansion, children of his own. 

Or kindred, gather'd round him. As a tree 

That falls and disappears, the house is gone ; 

And, through improvidence or want of love 

For ancient worth and honourable things. 

The spear and shield are vanisliM, which the Knight 

Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 

Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 

Of that foundation in domestic care 

Raised by his hands.® And now no trace is left 

Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, 

Faithless memorial ! and his family name 

Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 

From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 

These, and the name and title at full length, — 

Sir Alfred Irthij^g, with appropriate words 

Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 

Or posy, girding round the several fronts 

Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 

That in the steeple hang, his pious gift.'^ 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
The grey-hair'd Wanderer pensively exclaim'd, 
"" All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms 
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed ! 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own. The man himself 
Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 
Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, 
Fraternities and orders — heaping high 

6 The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took 
up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain, which are called 
Knott Houses, from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a Kniglit) concern- 
ing whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of the Knott family, for- 
merly considerable proprietors in the district. — Author* s Notes, 1843. 



THE EXCUKSION. 471 

New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 

And placing trust in privilege confirm'd 

And re-conlirni'd — are scoff'd at with a smile 

Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 

Of Desolation, aim'd : to slow decline 

These yield, and these to sudden overthrow : 

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 

Expires ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green, 

Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 

Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 

Of social nature changes evermore 

Her organs and her members with decay 

Restless, and restless generation, powers 

And functions dying and produced at need, — 

And by this law the mighty whole subsists : 

With an ascent and progress in the main ; 

Yet, 0, how disproportion'd to the hopes 

And expectations of self -flattering minds ! 

The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interr'd, 
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
Whence alteration in the forms of things 
Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
Which did to him assign a pensive lot, — 
To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds 
That on the steady breeze of honour sail'd 
In long procession calm and beautiful. 
He who had seen his own bright order fade, 
And its devotion gradually decline, 
(AYhile war, relinquishing the lance and shield. 
Her temper changed, and bow'd to other laws,) 
Had also witness'd, in his morn of life, 
That violent commotion which o'erthrew, 
In town and city and sequester'd glen. 
Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, 
And old religious house, — pile after pile; 
And shook their tenants out into the fields. 
Like wild beasts without home ! Their hour was come : 
But why no softening thought of gratitude, 
No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 
Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help. 
Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 
Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
Of mutability ; and airy hopes, 
Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 



472 WORDSWORTH. 

Those meditations of the soul that feed 
The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
Break from tlie madden'd nations at the sight 
Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 

Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous Knight, 
Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
(If I may venture of myself to speak, 
Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
Low things with lofty,) I too shall be doom'd 
To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
Of the poor calling which my youth embraced 
With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; — 
Thoughts crowd upon me, — and Hwere seemlier now 
To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
For the pathetic records which his voice 
Hath here deliver'd; words of heartfelt truth, 
Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; 
To hope and love ; to confident repose 
In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 



BOOK EIGHTH. 



THE PARSOI^TAGE. 

The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 

To those acknowledgments subscribed his own. 

With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 

Fail'd not to notice, inly pleased, and said: 

" If ye, by whom invited I began 

These narratives of calm and humble life, 

Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gain'd; 

And, in return for sympathy bestow'd 

x\nd patient listening, thanks accept from me. — 

Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 

Are they, and might demand a seraph's tongue, 

Were they not equal to their own support ; 

And tlierefore no incompetence of mine 

Could do them wrong. The universal forms 

Of human nature, in a spot like this. 

Present themselves at once to all men's view: 

Ye wisli'd for act and circumstance, that make 

The individual known and understood ; 



THE EXCURSIOJ?^. 473 

And sucli as my best judgment could select 
From what the' place afforded have been given; 
Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
To his might well I)e liken'd, who unlocks 
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures, — draws 
His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last. 
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
More than th' exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. — 
But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight, 
And there " — 

At tliis the Solitary shrunk 
With backward will ; but, wanting not address 
That inward motion to disguise, he said 
To liis Compatriot, smiling as he spake : 
" The peaceable remains of this good Knight 
Would be disturb'd, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
If consciousness could reach him Avhere he lies 
That one, albeit of these degenerate times. 
Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought. 
The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
AVith the gross aims and body-bending toil 
Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. 

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates 
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
Exiles and wanderers, — and the like are these ; 
Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. — 
What though no higher recompense be sought 
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
Full oft procnred, yet may they claim respect, 
Among th' intelligent, for what. this course 
Enables them to be and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, 
While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 
By the division of her inward self 
For grateful converse : and to these poor men 
Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) 
Is bountiful ; — go wheresoe'er they may, 
Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
Versed in the characters of men ; and bound. 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 



474 WOKDSWOKTH. 

Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Eude intercourse ; apt agents to expel. 
By importation of unlook'd-for arts, 
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
Eaising, through just gradation, savage life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes fortli to quicken and exalt 
Affections seated in the mother's breast. 
And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
By these Itinerants, as experienced men, 
Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
With gentle language; in remotest wilds, 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring : 
Could the proud quest of chivalry do more ? " 

"Happy/' rejoin'd the Wanderer, "they who gain 
A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
But, if to these Wayfarers once pertain'd 
Aught of romantic interest, it is gone: 
Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
To most strange issues.'^ I have lived to mark 
A new and unforeseen creation rise 
From out the labours of a peaceful Land, 
Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
And to produce, with appetite as keen 
As that of war, which rests not night or day. 
Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
Might one like me noiv visit many a tract 
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
Wish'd-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came. 
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; * 

7 What follows in the discourse of the Wanderer, upon the changes he had wit- 
nessed in rural life, by the introduction of machinery, is truly described from Avha't I 
myself saw during my boyhood and early youth,, and from what was often told me 
by persons of this humble calling. Parliament has interfered, to prevent the night- 
work which was ojice carried on in these mills as actively as during the day-time, 
and by necessity still more pernicioush^ — a sad disgrace "to the propi'ietors, and to 
tlie nation which could so long tolerate*^such unnatural proceedings. Reviewing at 
this late period, 1843, what I put into the mouths of my interlocutors a fe^v years after 
the commencement of the century, I grieve that so little progress has been made in 
diminishing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits of education which the Wan- 
derer anticipjites. — Author's Notes. 

8 The words thorpe and vill have both nearly the same meaning, — a hamlet, villa, 
or any small collection of houses. 



THE EXCURSIOS^. 475 

Or straggling burgli, of ancient cliarter proud, 

And dignified by battlements and towers 

Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow 

Of a green bill or bank of rugged stream. 

The foot-path faintly mark'd, tlie horse-track wild, 

And formidable length of plashy lane., 

(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 

Or easier links connecting place with place,) 

Have vanish 'd, — swallow 'd up by stately roads 

Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 

Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent 

Her waters, Air her breezes ; and the sail 

Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 

Glistening along the low and woody dale ; 

Or, in its progress, on the lofty side 

Of some bare hill, with w^onder kenn'd from far. 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, 
How quick, hoAV vast an increase ! From the germ 
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
Hiding the face of earth for leagues; and there. 
Where not a habitation stood before, 
Abodes of men irregularly mass'd 
Like trees in forests, spread through spacious tracts, 
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. 
And, w^heresoe'er the traveller turns his steps. 
He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
How much the mild Directress of the plough 
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts! 
Hence is the wide sea peopled ; hence the shores 
Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
Freighted from every climate of the world 
Witii the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum 
Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 
That animating spectacle of sails 
1'hat, through her inland regions, to and fro 
Pass with the respirations of the tide. 
Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, 
Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 
Of thunder daunting those who would approach 
With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 



476 WOEDSWORTH. 

Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 

And yet, happy Pastor of a flock 
Faithfully watch'd, and, by that loving care 
And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint ! 
AVith you I grieve, Avhen on the darker side 
Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
Such outrage done to Nature as compels 
Th' indignant power to justify herself; 
Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
For England's bane. When soothing darkness spreads 
O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus express'd 
His recollections, "and the punctual stars. 
While all things else are gatliering to their homes, 
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
Glitter, — but undisturbing, undisturb'd; 
As if their silent company were charged 
With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
Of all-beholding Man, Earth's thoughtful lord ; 
Then, in full many a region, once like this 
Th' assured domain of calm simplicity 
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes 
Breaks from a many-window'd fabric huge ; 
And at th' appointed hour a bell is heard, 
Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll® 
That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest, — 
A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 
And, as they issue from th' illumined pile, 
A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door. 
And in the courts, and Avhere the rumbling stream, 
That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels. 
Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 
Mother and little children, boys and girls. 
Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
W^ithin this temple, where is offer'd up 
To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 
Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
Our ancestors, within the still domain 
Of A^ast cathedral or conventual church. 
Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
On the dim altar burn'd continually, 

9 A law was made hy William the Conqueror, that all people should put out their 
fires and lights at the eight o'clock bell, and go to bed. Hence this signal came to be 
called the curfexo bell, from the French couvre-feUf that is, cover-fire. 



THE EXCURSIOIT. 477 

In token that the house was evermore 
Watching to God. Eeligions men Avere they; 
Nor would their reason, tntor'd to aspire 
Above this transitory world, allow 
That there should pass a moment of the year, 
When in their land tli' Almighty's service ceased. 

Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
Which we, a generation self-extolFd, 
As zealously perform! I cannot share 
His proud complacency : — yet do I exult, 
Casting reserve away, exult to see 
An intellectual mastery exercised 
O'er the blind elements ; a purpose given, 
A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
Imparted to brute matter. I rejoice, 
Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 
That, by the thinking mind, have been compell'd 
To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
For with the sense of admiration blends 
The animating hope that time may come 
When, strengthen'd, yet not dazzled, by the might 
Of this dominion over nature gain'd, 
Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
In due proportion to their country's need ; 
Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 
All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves. 
Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ; 
And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 
Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
Upon the grave of vanish'd Syracuse, 
And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
How insecure, bow baseless in itself. 
Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 
On mere material instruments ; how weak 
Those arts and high inventions, if unpropp'd 
By virtue. He, sighing with pensive grief, 
Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
That not the slender privilege is theirs 
To save themselves from blank forgetfulness ! " 

When from the Wanderer's hps these words had fallen, 
I said, '- And, did in truth those vaunted Arts 
Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere. 
And would preserve as things above all price, 



478 WOKDSWORTH. 

The old domestic morals of the land, 

Her simple manners, and the stable worth 

That dignified and cheer'd a low estate ? 

! where is now the character of peace. 

Sobriety, and order, and chaste loye. 

And honest dealing, and nntainted speech, 

And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer. 

That made the very thought of country-life 

A thought of refuge, for a mind detain'd 

Eeluctantly amid the bustling crowd? 

Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept 

With conscientious reverence, as a day 

By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 

Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 

Of all the lighter ornaments attach'd 

To time and season, as the year roU'd round ? " 

" Fled ! " was the Wanderer's passionate response; 
" Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
May bring; that brook converting as it runs 
Into an instrument of deadly bane 
For those who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their sires. 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss, 
(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
How art thou blighted for the poor man's heart ! 
Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 
The habitations empty ! or perchance 
The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 
No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
Or in despatch of each day's little growth 
Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire. 
Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! 

The Father, if perchance he still retain 
His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
No longer led or follow'd by the Sons ; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight; 
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 



THE EXCURSION. 479 

Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost. 

Economists will tell you that the State 

Thrives by the forfeiture, — unfeeling thought, 

And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 

By the destruction of her innocent sons. 

In whom a premature necessity 

Blocks out the forms of Mature, preconsumes 

The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 

The infant Being in itself, and makes 

Its very Scoring a season of decay! 

The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 

Whether a pining discontent surviye. 

And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 

The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 

Of her close tasks and long captivity. 

0, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
A native Briton to these inward chains, 
Fix'd in his soul, so early and so deep; 
Without his own consent, or knowledge, fix'd ! 
He is a slave to whom release comes not. 
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, 
Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
Among tlie clouds, and roars through th' ancient woods ; 
Or when the Sun is shining in the East, 
Quiet and calm. Behold him, — in the school 
Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 
Fanning his temjiles under heaven's blue arch. 
His raiment, whiten'd o'er Avith cotton-flakes 
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, 
His respiration quick and audible ; 
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form. 
Is that the countenance, and such the port. 
Of no mean Being ? one who should be clothed 
With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
Sublime from present purity and joy ? 
The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
Is gone for ever ; and this organic frame. 
So joyful in its motions, is become 
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; 
And even the touch, so exquisitely pour'd 
Through the whole body, with a languid will 
Performs its functions ; rarely competent 



480 WORDSWOKTH. 

To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 

Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 

The gentle visitations of the sun, 

Or lapse of liquid element, — by hand 

Or foot or lip, in Summer's warmth, — perceived. 

Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 

On such foundations ? " 

'' Hope is none for him ! " 
The pale Eecluse indignantly exclaim'd, 
" And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
Yet be it ask'd, in justice to our age, 
If there were not, before those arts appeared, 
These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle, 
Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
Air unimprison'd, and had lived at large ; 
Yet walk'd beneath the Sun, in human shape, 
As abject, as degraded ? At this day. 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Offspring, w^th their upright hair 
Crown'd like the image of fantastic Fear; 
Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white growth. 
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt -brows, 
By savage Nature ? Shrivell'd are their lips ; 
Naked, and colour'd like the soil, the feet 
On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, 
From earth, the common mother of us all. 
Figure and mien, complexion and attire 
Are leagued to strike dismay ; but outstretched hand 
And whining voice denote them supplicants 
For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found; 
And with their parents occupy the skirts 
Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
At the mine's mouth under impending rocks ; 
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave; 
Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
For the convenience of unlawful gain. 
In forest purlieus; and the like are bred. 
All England through, where nooks and slips of ground 
Purloin'd, in times less jealous than our own, 
From the green margin of the public way, 



THE EXCUESION. 481 

A residence afford tliem, 'mid the bloom 

And gaiety of cultivated fields. 

Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 

Do I remember oft-times to have seen 

'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch, 

Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 

Then, following closely with the cloud of dust, 

An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 

Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 

Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin. 

And, on the freight of merry passengers 

Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 

And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 

Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost. 

Or bounty tires, — and every face that smiled 

Encouragement hath ceased to look that way. 

But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe. 

These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 

Are profitless to others. 

Turn we, then, 
To Britons born and bred wdthin the pale 
Of civil polity, and early train'd 
To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich 
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
* Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes 
Impart new gladness to the morning air ? ' 
Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; 
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear. 
Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
The wooden stools for everlasting use, 
l^hereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
IJnder whose shaggy canopy are set 
Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare — 
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and. strange, — 
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
A look or motion of intelligence 
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line. 
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand, 
What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 



482 WORDSWORTH. 

Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 

Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheath'd in ice? 

This torpor is no pitiable work 

Of modern ingenuity ; no town 

Nor crowded city can be tax'd with aught 

Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 

To which (and who can tell where or how soon ?) 

He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce : 

His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe. 

The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 

In air high-towering with a boorish pomp. 

The sceptre of his sway, his country's name. 

Her equal rights, her churches and her schools, — 

What have they done for him ? And, let me ask, 

Eor tens of thousands uninform'd as he ? 

In brief, what liberty of mind is here ? " 

This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
To whom th' appeal couch'd in its closing words 
Was pointedly address'd ; and to the thoughts 
That, in assent or opposition, rose 
Within his mind, he seem'd prepared to give 
Prompt utterance ; but the Vicar interposed 
With invitation urgently renew'd. — 
We follow'd, taking as he led, a path 
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall. 
Whose flexile boughs, low bending with a weight 
Of leafy spray, conceal'd the stems and roots 
That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
Howl from the North, what kindly warmth, methought. 
Is here, — how grateful this impervious screen I 
Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
On rural business passing to and fro 
Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
Had mark'd the line, and strewn its surface o'er 
With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
Fetch'd by a neighbouring brook. Across the vale 
The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
Guarded and graced, seem'd fashion'd to unite. 
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain. 
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. 

Like image of solemnity, conjoin'd 
With feminine allurement soft and fair. 
The mansion's self display'd ; — a reverend pile. 
With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 



THE EXCURSION. 483 

Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admire 

The pillar'd porch, elaborately emboss'd ; 

The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 

The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone ; 

And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose. 

By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 

And flowering shrubs, protected and adorn'd: 

Profusion bright! and every flower assuming 

A more than natural vividness of hue, 

From unaffected contrast with the gloom 

Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 

Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 

Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 

And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 

Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 

Blending their diverse foliage with the green 

Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasp'd 

The iiuge round chimneys, harbour of delight 

For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 

Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 

Nor must I leave untouch'd (the picture else 

Were incomplete) a relique of old times 

Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 

Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 

The sculptured image of some patron-saint. 

Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 

On all who enter'd those religions doors. 

But, lo ! where from the rocky garden -mount, 
Crown'd by its antique summer-house, descends. 
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
For she hath recognised her honour'd friend, 
The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance. 
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look. 
And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
We enter, — by the Lady of the place 
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
A lofty stature undepressed by time, 
Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
And wisdom loves. — But, when a stately ship 
Sails in smooth Aveather by the placid coast 
On homeward voyage, what if wind and wave. 
And hardship undergone in various climes, 



484 WOKDSWORTH. 

Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
With which she left her haven ? not for this, 
Should the sun strike her, and th' impartial breeze 
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
Brightness and touching beauty of her own. 
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appear'd 
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 
Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
From trivial themes to general argument 
Passing, as accident or fancy led. 
Or courtesy prescribed. AVhile question rose 
And answer flow'd, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
Eesumed the manners of his happier days ; 
And in the various conversation bore 
A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
Had learn'd the art of pleasing, and had now 
Occasion given him to display his skill. 
Upon the steadfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
He gazed, with admiration unsuppress'd, 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
In soften'd perspective ; and more than once 
Praised the consummate harmony serene 
Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
Around the mansion and its whole domain ; 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care. — "A blessed lot is yours I " 
The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh 
Breathed over them : but suddenly the door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appear'd, confusion checking their delight. — 
Not brothers they in feature or attire, 
But fond companions, so I guess'd, in field, 
And by the river's margin, — whence they come. 
Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 
One bears a willow-pannier on his back. 
The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 
More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 
To that fair girl who from the garden -mount 
Bounded: — triumphant entry this for him! 



THE EXCURSION". 485 

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 

On whose capacious snrface see outspread 

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted tronts; 

Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 

Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 

Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 

With its rich freight ; their number he proclaims ; 

Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragg'd; 

And where the very monarch of the brook, 

After long struggle, had escaped at last, — 

Stealing alternately at them and us 

(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride: 

And, verily, the silent creatures made 

A sjDlendid sight, together thus exposed ; 

Dead, — but not sullied or deform'd by death, 

That seem'd to pity what he could not spare. 

But, 0, the animation in the mien 
Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
With which the young narrator was inspired. 
When, as our questions led, he told at large 
Of that day's prowess I Him might I compare, 
His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
To a bold brook that splits for better speed. 
And at the self-same moment works its way 
Through many channels, ever and anon 
Parted and re-united : his compeer, 
To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
As beautiful, — as grateful to the mind. — 
But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
Be liken'd? — she whose countenance and air 
Unite the graceful qualities of both. 
Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 

My grey-hair'd Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
Glisten'd with tenderness; his mind, I knew, 
AVas full ; and had, I doubted not, return'd, 
U])on this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
Withdrew, on summons to their well-earn'd meal ; 
And He, — to whom all tongues rcsign'd their rights 
With willingTiess, to whom the general ear 
Listen'd with readier patience than to strain 
Of music, late or harp, a long delight 
That ceased not when his voice had ceased, — as one 
Who from truth's central point serenely views 
The compass of his argument, began 
Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 



486 WORDSWORTH. 

BOOK NINTH. 



DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO 

THE LAKE. 

" To every Form of being is assign'd," 

Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 

" An active Principle : — howe'er removed 

From sense and observation, it subsists 

In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 

Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 

In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 

That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 

The moving waters, and th' invisible air. 

Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 

Beyond itself, communicating good, 

A simple blessing, or with evil mix'd ; 

Spirit that knows no insulated spot. 

No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 

It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 

This is the freedom of the universe; 

Unfolded still the more, more visible. 

The more we know; and yet is reverenced least, 

And least respected in the human Mind, 

Its most apparent home. The food of hope 

Is meditated action ; robb'd of this 

Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 

"We perish also ; for we live by hope 

And by desire ; we see by the glad light 

And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 

And so we live, or else we have no life. 

To-morrow — nay perchauce this very hour 

(For every moment hath its own to-moiTow !) 

Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 

With present triumph, will be sure to find 

A field before them freshen'd with the dew 

Of other expectations ; — in which course 

Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 

A like glad impulse ; and so moves the man 

'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 

Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 

Do we revert so fondly to the walks 

Of childhood, but tliat there the Soul discerns 

The dear memorial footsteps unimpair'd 

Of her own native vigour ; thence can hear 



THE EXCUKSION. 487 

Rcverbei-ations ; and a choral song, 
Commingling with the incense that ascends, 
Undaunted, toward th' imperishable heavens 
From her own lonely altar ? 

Do not think 
The good and wise ever will be allow'd, 
Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
That Man descends into the Vale of years; 
Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
As of a final Emixexce"; though bare 
In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
In awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
A throne, that may be liken'd unto his 
Who, in some placid day of Summer, looks 
Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
High peaks that bound the vale where now we are. 
Faint, and dimiuish'd to the gazing eye. 
Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
"With all the shapes over their surface spread: 
But, while the gi-oss and visible frame of things 
Relinquishes its^hold upon the sense. 
Yea, almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
Of waters, with invigorated peal 
From the full river in the vale below. 
Ascending I For on that superior height 
Who sits, is disencumber'd from the press 
Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
To breathe in solitude, above the host 
Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
Many and idle visits not his ear : 
This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 
(Xot less unceasing, not less vain than these) 
By which the finer passages of sense 
Are occupied ; and the Soul, that would incline 
To listen, is prevented or deterred. 

And may it not be hoped that, placed by age 
In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
But for some favour, suited to our need ? 
What more than that the severing should confer 



488 WORDSWOKTH. 

Fresh power to commune with th' invisible world, 

And hear t]ie mighty stream of tendency 

Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 

A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 

To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 

To run the giddy round of vain deliglit. 

Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course ; 
Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
To whom kind JSTature therefore may afford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all; 
Whose birthright Keason therefore may ensure. 
For me, consulting what I feel within. 
In times when most existence with herself 
Is satisfied, I cannot but believe 
That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
And Eeason's sway predominates, even so far 
Country, society, and time itself. 
That saps the individual's bodily frame, 
And lays the generations low in dust. 
Do, by th' almighty Euler's grace, partake 
Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned 
Out of her course, wherever man is made 
An offering or a sacrifice, a tool 
Or implement, a passive thing employ'd 
As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
Of common right or interest in the end ; 
Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known 
That when we stand upon our native soil, 
Unelbow'd by such objects as oppress 
Our active j)owers, those powers themselves become 



THE EXCUKSION. 489 

Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
And make the chalice of the big round year 
Kun o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
In beauty through the w^orld ; and all who see 
Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 

" Then," said the Solitary, ^' by what force 
Of language shall a feeling heart express 
Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
In sickness, and for increase in a power 
That works but by extinction ? On themselves 
They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 
To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 
To look into the eyes of others, thence 
To be instructed what they must avoid : 
Or rather, let us say, how least observed, 
How with most quiet and most silent death, 
With the least taint and injury to the air 
Th' oppressor breathes, their human form divine, 
And their immortal soul, may waste away." 

The Sage rejoin'd, "I thank you, — you have spared 
My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I share. 
When, heretofore, I placed before jouv sight 
A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
Of modern ingenuity, and made 
The senseless member of a vast machine, 
Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
Think not that, pitying him, I could forget 
The rustic Boy who walks the fields, untaught ; 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of want. 
And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have wdtness'd, — lot which I myself 
Sliared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed. 
Through which I struggled, not without distress 
And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthrall'd 
'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a bird that breaks 
Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind. 
Though with her plumes impair'd. If they, whose souls 
Should open while they range the richer fields 
Of merry England, are obstructed less 
By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 



490 WORDSWORTH. 

That tens of thousands at this day exist 
Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 
Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 
A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
Were turn'd to evils that are new and chosen, 
A bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
To victims, which the merciful can see. 
Nor think that they are victims ; turn'd to wrongs. 
By women, who have children of their own. 
Beheld without compassion, yea, with praise! 
I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
The healthier, the securer, we become; 
Delusion which a moment may destroy! 
Lastly, I mourn'd for those whom I had seen 
Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 
Where circumstance and nature had combined 
To shelter innocence and cherish love; 
Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, , 
Possess'd of health, and strength, and peace of mind; 
Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 
Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 
And whence that difference ? whence but from himself ? 
For see the universal Eace endow'd 
With the same upright form ! — The Sun is fix'd, 
And th' infinite magnificence of heaven 
Fix'd, within reach of every human eye ; 
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense. 
Even as an object is sublime or fair. 
That object is laid open to the view 
Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
Is salutary, or an influence sweet. 
Are each "and all enabled to perceive 
That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
Eeason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears; 
Imagination, freedom in the will ; 



THE EXCUfiSIOX. 491 

Conscience to guide and check; and death to be 

Foretasted, immortality conceived 

By all, — a blissful immortality, 

To them whose holiness on Earth shall make 

The Spirit capable of Heaven, assured. 

Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be deem'd 

The failure, if th' Almighty, to this point 

Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 

The excellence of moral qualities 

From common understanding ; leaving truth 

And virtue difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 

Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 

Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 

And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 

The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 

The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless. 

Are scatter 'd at the feet of Man — like flowers. 

The generous inclination, the just rule. 

Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts, — 

No mystery is here [ Here is no boon 

For high, — yet not for low ; for proudly graced, — 

Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 

To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth 

As from the haughtiest palace. He whose soul 

Ponders this true equality may walk 

The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 

Yet, in that meditation, will he find 

Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 

Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown. 

And for th' injustice grieving, that hath made 

So wide a difference between man and man. 

Then let us rather fix our gladden'd thoughts 
Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair 
Of blooming Boys, (whom we beheld even now,) 
Blest in their several and their common lot! 
A few short hours of each returning day 
The thriving prisoners of their village-school; 
And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
To breathe and to be happy, run and shout, 
Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss; 
For every genial power of Heaven and Earth, 
Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 
Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
To labour for them ; bringing each in turn 
The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 



4:92 WOEDSWOIITH. 

Beauty, or strength ! Sucli privilege is theirs. 

Granted alike in th' outset of their course 

To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 

I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 

" Much as 1 glory in that child of yours, 

Eepine not for his cottage-comrade, Avhom 

Belike no higher destiny awaits 

Than th' old hereditary wish fulfill'd; 

The wish for liberty to live, — content 

With what Heaven grants, and die, in peace of mind, 

Within the bosom of his native vale. 

At least, whatever fate the noon of life 

Reserves for either, sure it is that both 

Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn; 

Whether regarded as a jocund time. 

That in itself may terminate, or lead 

In course of nature to a sober eve. 

Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 

They will allow that justice has in them 

Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
Some weighty matter; then, with fervent voice 
And an impassion'd majesty, exclaim'd : 

" 0, for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
And best protection, this imperial Eealm, 
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
An obligation, on her part, to teach 
Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
Binding herself by statute to secure 
For all the children whom her soil maintains 
The rudiments of letters, and inform 
The mind with moral and religious truth. 
Both understood and practised : so that none, 
However destitute, be left to droop 
By timely culture unsustain'd ; or run 
Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
To drudge through a weary life without the help 
Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
A savage horde among the civilized, 
A servile band among the lordly free ! 
This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims 
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
For the protection of his innocence ; 
And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
The sinless age, by conscience is enroll' d, 



THE EXCURSIOi?^. 493 

Yet mutinously knits liis angry brow, 
And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent. 
Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
To impious use — by process indirect 
Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
This sacred right is fruitlessly announced. 
This uniyersal plea in vain addressed, 
To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 
Did, in the time of their necessity. 
Urge it in vain ; and therefore, like a prayer 
That from the humblest floor ascends to Heaven, 
It mounts to reach the State's parental ear; 
Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
' And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
Th' unquestionable good, — which England, safe 
From interference of external force. 
May grant at leisure ; without risk incurr'd 
That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

Look ! and behold, from Calpe^s sunburnt cliffs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea,^ 
Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
Laws overturn'd ; and territory split. 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shatter'd and destroy'd. 
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles 
Eemains entire and indivisible : 
And, if that ignorance were removed which breeds 
W^ithin the compass of their several shores 
Dark discontent or loud commotion, each 
Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. — 
The discipline of slavery is unknown 
Amon^^ us, — hence the more do we require 
The discipline of virtue ; order else 
Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
Thus, duties rising out of good possest. 
And j)rudent caution needful to avert 
Impending evil, equally require 
That the whole people should be taught and train'd. 

1 That is, tliroughout the whole extent of Western Continental Europe; Calpihe- 
ing the ancient name of the southennnost point of Spain. The allusion is to the rndu 
cal doings of Napoleon in overturning ancient thi'ones and states, and substituting 
8word-law, generally. 



494 WORDSWORTH. 

So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
Their place ; and genuine piety descend, 
Like an inheritance, from age to age. 

With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
Of numbers crowded on their native soil. 
To the prevention of all healthful growth 
Through mutual injury ! Eather in the law 
Of increase and the mandate from above 
Rejoice! — and ye have special cause for joy. 
For, as the element of air affords 
An easy passage to th' industrious bees 
Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
For those ordain'd to take their sounding flight 
From the throng'd hive, and settle where they list 
In fresh abodes, — their labour to renew ; 
So the wide waters, open to the power, 
The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
Her swarms, and in succession send them forth; 
Bound to establish new communities 
On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
And perseverance their deserved reward. 

Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
" Change wide, and deep, and silently performed. 
This Land shall witness ; and, as days roll on. 
Earth's universal frame shall feel th' effect; 
Even till the smallest habitable rock. 
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
Of humanised society ; and bloom 
With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance, 
A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
From culture, unexclusively bestow'd 
On Albion's noble Race in freedom born. 
Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 
And faithful care of unambitious schools 
Instructing simple childhood's ready ear : 
Thence look for these magnificent results ! — 
Vast the circumference of hope, — and ye 
Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 
All ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice 
From out the bosom of these troubled times 
Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 



THE EXCURSION". 495 

Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
Transfer not to futurity a work 
Of urgent need. Your country must complete 
Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, 
Now, when oppression, like th' Egyptian plague 
Of darkness, stretcli'd o'er guilty Europe, makes 
The brightness more conspicuous that invests 
The happy Island where ye think and act ; 
Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit. 
Show to the wretched nations for what end 
The powers of civil polity were given." 

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
" Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
The silvery lake is streak'd with placid blue ; 
As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 
Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moor'd 
Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
We rose together: all were pleased; but most 
The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 
Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
She vanish'd, eager to impart the scheme 
To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
And earnest preparation. — Forth we went. 
And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 
Pursued our way, a broken company. 
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
Thus having reach'd a bridge, that overarch'd 
The hasty rivulet where it lay becalm'd 
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
A twofold image ; on a grassy bank 
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same ! Most beautiful. 
On the green turf, with his imperial front 
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb. 
The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful. 
Beneath him, shew'd his shadowy counterpart. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky. 
And each seem'd centre of his own fair world ; 
Antipodes unconscious of each other. 
Yet, in partition, with their several spheres. 



496 WORDSWOETH. 

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it ! " 

These few words 
The Lady whisper'd, while we stood and gazed, 
Gather'd together, all in still delight, 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
In like low yoice to my particular ear, 
" I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
On human life from infancy to age. 
HoAv pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of things. 
Caught in their fairest, liappiest attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but, when his voice hath ceased. 
Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
AYhose highest beauty, beautiful as it is. 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace 
The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 

Moi-e liad she said, but sportive shouts were heard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys,- 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after us. 
With caution we embark'd ; and now the pair 
For prouder service were addrest ; but each. 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
Dropp'd the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
Their place I took, — and for a grateful office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time. 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! 
A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 
Toss'd on the weaves alone, or 'mid a crew 
Of joyoi\s comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 
Was clear'd, I dipp'd, with arms accordant, oars 
Free from obstruction; and the boat advanced 
Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk 
That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
With correspondent wings th' abyss of air. — 
" Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky isle 



THE EXCURSION". 497 

With bircli-trees fringed : my hand shall guide the helm, 

While thitherward, we shape onr course ; or while 

We seek that other, on the western shore ; 

Where the bare cokimns of those lofty firs. 

Supporting gracefully a massy dome 

Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 

A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 

"Turn where we may," said I, "we cannot err 
In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scatter'd groyes. 
And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
Surrounded us ; and, as w^e held our way 
Along the leyel of the glassy flood. 
They ceased not to surround us ; change of place, 
From kindred features diversely combined. 
Producing change of beauty ever new. — 
Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
Of living Nature, cannot be portray'd 
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 
But is the property of him alone 
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
Of trivial occupations well devised, 
And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 
As if some friendly Genius had ordain'd 
That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
By acquisition of sincere delight. 
The same should be continued to its close. 

One spirit animating old and young, 
A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed; and there. 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast, — served by our young companions 
With, rival earnestness and kindred glee. [lake; 

Launch'd from our hands the smooth stone skimm'd the 
With shouts we raised the echoes ; — stiller sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied, — a simple song. 
Whose low tones reach'd not to the distant rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts ; and charm'd the peaceful flood. 
Rapaciously we gather'd flowery spoils 
From land and water ; lilies of each hue. 
Golden and white, that float upon the waves. 
And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant, 



498 WORDSWORTH. 

(Her flowers were shed,) the hly of the vale, 

That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 

Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
And season yield ; but, as we re-embark'd. 
Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
" The fire, that burn'd so brightly to our wish, 
Where is it now ? — Deserted on the beach, — 
Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning breeze 
Eevive its ashes. What care we for this. 
Whose ends are gain'd ? Behold an emblem here 
Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
And, in this unpremeditated slight 
Of that which is no longer needed, see 
The common course of human gratitude ! " 

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
Glades we behold, and into thickets peep. 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
And thus the bark, meandering with the shore. 
Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

Alert to follow as the Pastor led. 
We clomb a green hill's side ; and, as we clomb. 
The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less. 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — far off. 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couch'd 
Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
Not seldom over anxious to make known 
His own discoveries; or to favourite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 



THE EXCURSION^. 499 

That rapturous moment never shall I forget 
When these particular interests were effaced 
From every mind ! — Already had the Sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
Eetired behind the mountain-tops or veiFd 
By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
Of the blue firmament, — aloft, and wide: 
And multitudes of little floating clouds. 
Through their ethereal texture pierced, — ere we, 
Who saw, of change were conscious, — had become 
Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms 
Scatter'd through half the circle of the sky ; 
And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
That which the heavens display'd, the liquid deep 
Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 

While from the grassy mountain's open side 
We gazed, in silence hush'd, with eyes intent 
On the refulgent spectacle diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
The Priest in holy transport thus exclaim'd : 

*^ Eternal Spirit! universal God! 
Power inaccessible to human thought. 
Save by degrees and steps which Thou hast deign'd 
To furnish ; for this effluence of Thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed; this local transitory type 
Of Thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 
Of those who fill Thy courts in highest Heaven, 
The radiant Cherubim, — accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, 
Presume to oif er ; we who — from the breast 
Of the frail Earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of Thy face — 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore! 
Such as they are who in Thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty stream'd forth 
From Thy empyreal throne, th' elect of Earth 
Shall be, — divested at th' appointed hour 
Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal stain. 



500 WOEDSWORTH. 

Accomplish, then, their number; and conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by Thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by stealth 
Be yet far distant, let Thy Word prevail, 
! let Thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the law. 
As it is written in Thy holy book. 
Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey; 
Both for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it afiords, to such as do Thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise. 
To have a nearer view of Thee, in Heaven. 
Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant. 
In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is mark'd. 
The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian temples meet 
The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffer'd to all, while yet on Earth detained. 

So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few. 
Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask. 
Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife. 
Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
And the kind never perish? Is the hope 
Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
A peaceable dominion, wide as Earth, 
And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
Studious of mutual benefit ; and he. 
Whom Morn awakens, among dews and flowers 
Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 
Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 
Working through love, such conquest shall it gain. 
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
Almighty Lord, Thy further grace impart! 
And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
Fulfill'd, the hope accomplish'd ; and Thy praise 
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 

Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake. 



THE EXCURSIOIS'. 501 

On us the venerable Pastor tiirn'd 

His beaming- eye that had been raised to Heaven, 

" Once, while the Name Jehovah was a sound 

Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 

Unheard, the savage nations bow'd the head 

To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds; 

Gods which themselves had fashion'd, to promote 

111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 

Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove, 

To those inventions of corrupted man 

Mysterious rites were solemnised; and there — ^ 

Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 

Of those terrific Idols some received 

Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 

Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 

Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 

Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 

Of human victims, offer'd up to appease 

Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 

Had visionary faculties to see 

The thing that hath been as the thing that is. 

Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 

Bedimm'd with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 

Flung from the body of devouring fires. 

To Taranis erected on the heights 

By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 

Exnltingly, in view of open day 

And full assemblage of a barbarous host ; 

Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 

(For so they fancied) glorious victory. 

A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 

Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 

Th' appearances of things ! From such, how changed 

Th' existing worship ; and w4th those compared, 

The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 

So wade the difference, a willing mind 

Might almost think, at this affecting hour. 

That Paradise, the lost abode of man, 

Was raised again : and to a ha^^py few. 

In its original beauty, here restored. 

Whence but from Thee, the true and only God, 
And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
Were left, the other gain'd. — ye, who come 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 



503 WORDSWORTH. 

CalFd to such office by the peaceful sound 

Of sabbath bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth. 

All cares forgotten, round its hallow'd walls 1 

For you, in presence of this little band 

Gather'd together on the green hill-side, 

Your Pastor is embolden'd to prefer 

Vocal thanksgivings to th' eternal King; 

Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have made 

Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 

And in good works ; and him, who is endow'd 

With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth 

Which the salvation of his soul requires. 

Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd 

On you, the children of my humble care. 

And this dear land, our country, while on Earth 

We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 

Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 

These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 

These fertile fields, that recompense your pains; 

The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 

Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 

Or hush'd ; the roaring waters, and the still, — 

They see the offering of my lifted hands. 

They hear my lips present their sacrifice. 

They know if I be silent, morn or even : 

For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 

Will find a vent ; and thought is praise to Him, — 

Audible praise, to Thee, omniscient Mind, 

From wiiom all gifts descend, all blessings flow ! " 

This vesper-service closed, without dela}^, 
From that exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward course. 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of those celestial splendours ; grey the vault, — 
Pure, cloudless ether; and the star of eve 
Was wanting; but inferior lights appear'd 
Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring-place ; wdiere, to the sheltering tree, 
Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow. 
With prompt yet* careful hands. This done, we paced 
The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
Was reach'd, the Solitary check'd his steps; 
Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestow'd 



THE EXCUKSIOK. 503 

A farewell salutation; and, the like 

Receiving, took the slender path that leads 

To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 

But turn'd not without welcome promise made 

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 

Of yet another Summer's day,^ not loth 

To wander with us through the fertile vales. 

And o'er the mountain-wastes. " Another sun," 

Said he, "shall shine upon us, ere we part; 

Another sun, and peradventure more ; 

If time, with free consent, be yours to give. 

And season favours." 

To enfeebled Power, 
' From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
What renovation had been brought; and what 
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
Dejected, and habitually disposed 
To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse ensued; 
This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
My future labours may not leave untold. 

nrHi ^^rH} ^epOTted this promise of the Solitary, and long after, it was my wish, 
ders iZ^Kl n^fi^i''"*''''';^^'''*^'^^ should resume our wanderings, and pass the Bor! 
thJ w«mi?i^. ""l'"^® country, where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the society of 
hi? I^ri^^hfwk'^'^^*' religious ceremony which, by recalling to his mind the days of 
and neSes^ kiS;i'';^f^ht\^'''^ been present on such occasions with his parents 
ana nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into tenderness, and so have 
4^fh t'^^T.Sirnf'/^''^^^"^ "'^ Christian faith in which he had been edSteS, and! 
SfflS^L hi^thS'''''^ ^"i"^ ^T^" cheerfulness of mind, than all that the Wanderer 
f«r,P lit! fAJl^J?®'-"^ ^'"''^•'■'1^ addressee and effusions, had been able to effect. An 
issue like this was m my intentions. But, alas ! ^"cv.t. .aoj 

, " Mid the wreck of is and was. 
Things incomplete and purposes betray'd 
Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 
Than noblest objects utterly decayed."— ^««Aor's Notes, 1843. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE: 

SKETCH OF HIS LIEE. 



This " wonderful man " was the youngest of ten children, and was born Oct. 
21 1772 nearly two and a half years later than Wordsworth, The place of 
his birth was in the parish of Otterv St. Mary's, Devonshire. _ His father, the 
Rev. John Coleridge, was the vicar of that parish, and was living in the vicar- 
ao-e He is said to have been very studious, absorbed in books, unknowing 
and reo-ardless of the world and its ways, of simple character^ and primitive 
manners, and commonly known as "the absent man." Notwithstanding his 
oddities he was a good faithful Christian pastor, much beloved and respected 
by his flock. Though Samuel was only seven years old when his father died, 
he remembered him to the last with deep reverence and love : "0, that I might 
so pass away if, like him, I were an Israelite without guile ! The image ot m3r 
father — mv revered, kind, learned, simple-hearted father — is a religion to me. 

Durino- his childhood, Coleridge never shared in the plays and games ot 
his brothers, but sought refuge by his mother's side, to read his little books and 
listen to the talk of his elders. He had the simplicity and docility of a child, 
but never thought or spoke as a child. At the age of nine, he was removed to 
Christ's Hospital, London, a large charity school, intended, says Charles 
Lamb who was there at the same time, " to keep those who yet hold up their 
heads in the world from sinking." Of this removal, Colendge wrote ong after- 
wards •" O, what a change, from home to this city school ; depressed moping, 
friendless, a poor orphan, half-starved ! " It seems that for boys of his grade, 
what was' then called " the lower school," the supply ot food was at that time 
cruelly insufficient ; and as he had no friends within reach, to make up the de- 
ficiency, his sufferings were sometimes very great. On holidays in Summer, 
the boVs were very fond of going on bathing excursions to a stream called JSew 
River • and on one of those excursions Coleridge swam the river in his clothes, 
and let them dry on his back : this planted in him the seeds of those rheumatic 
nains which did so much to frustrate the large promise of his youth. 

Colerido-e, however, did not spend his time in idleness. Even then he was 
a great devourer of books ; and this appetite wa,s fed by a strange incident. 
One day, as he walked down the Strand, going with his arms as in the act of 
swimming, he touched the pocket of a passer-by. _ " What, so young and so 
wicked!" exclaimed the stranger, at the same time seizing him for a pick- 
pocket. " I am not a pickpocket," said he ; " I only thought I was Leander 
swimming the Hellespont." The man was so struck with the reply that in- 
stead of handing him over to the police, he subscribed to a library, tha Cole- 
rid..e might thence have his full of books. In a short tune he read ngh 
thrSuo-h the catalogue, and exhausted the library. Another circumstance put 
h m upon devouring Greek, Latin, and English books on mediane; and he is 
said to have got by heart a whole Latin medical dictionary. This carried him 
on into a deep course of metaphysics ; which set him for a time to spor ing infi- 
del Dr Bowyer, the Head-master, who was noted as a severe disciplmanan, 
on hearing of this, sent for Coleridge. " So, sirrah ! you are an inhdel, are 
you" Then I'll flog vour infidelity out of you." Thereupon he gave him the 
severest, and as Cokridge used to say, the only just flogging he ever received. 

50d: 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 505 

Dr. Bowyer's instructions were always remembered by Coleridge with grate- 
ful affection. In his Biographia Literdria, he sjicaks of the Head-master as one 
who taught him to prefer Demosthenes to Cicero, Homer and Theocritus to 
Vxrgil, and Virgil to Ovid ; who accustomed his pupils to compare Lucretius, 
Terence, and the purer poems of Catulus, not only with " the Koman poets of 
the silver, but even with those of the Augustan era, and, on grounds of plain 
sense and universal logic, to see the superiority of the former in the truth and 
nativeness both of their thoughts and diction." — In his sixteenth year, Cole- 
ridge's poetical genius began to put forth, and this in such a shape as seemed 
to mark him out for a life of poetry. While he was in the upper school, meta- 
physics and controversial theology struggled for some time for the mastery ; 
but at last, owing to certain happy influences, poetry carried the day, and lor 
some years was paramount. I must dismiss his life at Christ's Hospital with 
the following passage from Charles Lamb : 

^ " Come back to my memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of my fan- 
cies, with hope like a fiery column before thee, — the dark pillar not yet turned, 
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! How have I 
seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, (while he weighed the 
disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula,) to 
hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jambli- 
chus and Plotinus ; for even then thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic 
draughts ; or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar ; while the waUs of the 
old Grey-Friars re-echoed the accents of the inspired charity boy ! " 

Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cambridge, in February, 1791, just a month 
after Wordsworth had left the University. And in his case, as in that of 
Wordsworth, it soon appeared that Cambridge was not the place for him, or 
he was not for the place. He never made much headway there. As the 
French devolution was then in full career, he plunged into politics, and was 
carried away with the prevailing frenzy. " In the general conflagration," says 
he, " my feelings and imagination did not remain unkindled. 1 should have 
been ashamed rather than proud of myself, if they had." At length, the press- 
ure of some college debts, incurred through his own inexperience, drove him 
to despondency. He Avent to London, and there seeing an advertisement for 
recruits to the 15th regiment of Light Dragoons, he enlisted as a private under 
the name ot Comberbach, and went to drilling in military horsemanship. For 
the grooming of his horse, and other like offices, he was indebted to his com- 
rades, with whom he was a great favourite. He repaid them by writing all their 
letters to their wives and sweethearts. In the stable, he had written under his 
saddle, the words, "Eheu, quam infortuni miserrimum est fuisse felicem!'' 
This was seen by a captain who had Latin enough to translate it, and heart 
enough to feel it. About the same time he was seen by an old Cambridge ac- 
quaintance, who informed his friends : so, after serving some four months, he 
was bought off, and returned to college ; where he stayed but a short time, and 
finally left in June, 1794, without taking a degree. 

Soon after, he fell in with Southey, and struck up a warm friendship with 
him ; and the two went to live at Bristol. Though their characters were vastly 
different, their tastes and opinions were in full accord. Both were then enthu- 
siastically democratic in politics and Unitarian in religion; and Southey at 
once responded to the day-dream of Pantisocracy which Coleridge opened to 
him. This was a plan for founding a community in America, where a band of 
brothers were to have all things in common, and selfishness was to be unknown. 
The land was to be tilled by the common toil of the men ; their wives, for all 
were to be married, were to do all t\iQ household work ; and abundant leisure 
was to remain for literature and social intercourse. The banks of the Susque- 
hanna were to be the place of this earthly paradise ; chosen, it is said, more for 
the melody of the name than for any known advantages. But they could not 
dream money into their pockets, and without money the scheme would not go. 



506 COLEEIDGE. 

Early in 1795 it was given up ; and in the Fall of that year the two young men 
were married, Coleridge to Sarah Fricker, and Southey to her sister Edith. 

The next few years were mainly spent by Coleridge in various attempts to 
solve the rather tough problem of bread and butter. First he tried lecturing to 
the Bristol people on the political subjects of the day and on religious ques- 
tions. Then he tried the publication of a weekly miscellany. Neither of these 
brought in the expected returns. The third enterprise was the publication of 
his Juvenile Poems, in 1796, for the copyright of which he received thirty gui- 
neas. His next undertaking seemed at first to promise something better. He 
ordained himself to the ministry, and engaged to preach from time to time in 
the Unitarian chapels in the neighbourhood of Bristol. In this office he contin- 
ued for some time, taking his texts from the Bible, but his real subjects from the 
political events of tlv3 time. At Birmingham he was heard by Hazlitt, who 
thus recorded the matter : 

" It was in January, 1798, that I rose one morning before daylight, to walk 
ten miles in the mud to hear this celebrated person preach. Never, the longest 
day I have to live, shall I have §uch another walk as that cold, raw, comfort- 
less one. When I got there the organ was playing the 100th Psalm, and when 
it was done Mr. Coleridge arose and gave out his text, ' He departed again 
into a mountain himself alone.' As he gave out this text, his voice rose like a 
stream of rich distilled perfumes ; and when he came to the last two words, 
which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then 
young, as if the sound had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and as 
if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through the vmiverse. The 
preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. 
For myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of 
the spheres. Poetry and Philosophy had met together. Truth and Genius had 
embraced, under the eye and sanction of religion. This was even beyond my 
hopes." 

Of the first meeting and life-long friendship of Coleridge and Wordsworth, 
some account is given in the Sketch of Wordsworth's Life. WordsAvorth with 
his sister was then living at Racedown in Dorsetshire, and in 1797 Coleridge 
removed with his family from Bristol, and took up his abode at Nether Stowey, 
tinder the Quantock hills. Thus the two poets were settled within easy reach 
of each other ; and, mainly for the sake of being still nearer to Coleridge, 
Wordsworth soon after removed to Alfoxden. 

I must here quote Miss Wordsworth's description of Coleridge, written to a 
friend who had left Racedown some time before : " You had a great loss in not 
seeing Coleridge. He is a wonderful man. His conversation teems with soul, 
mind, and spirit. Then he is so benevolent,. so good-tempered, and cheerful, 
and, like William, interests himself so much about every little trifle. At first 
I thought him very plain, that is, for about three minutes : he is pale, thin, has 
a wide mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing, half- 
curling, rough, black hair. But, if you hear him speak for five minutes, you 
think no more of them. His eye is large and full, not very dark, but grey, — 
such an eye as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression ; but it 
speaks every emotion of his animated mind : it has more of ' the poet's eye in 
a fine frenzy rolling' than I ever Avitnessed. He has fine dark eyebrows, and 
an overhanging forehead." 

While living at Nether StoAvey, Coleridge shot up at once into poetic man- 
hood. The Ancient Mariner, the first part of Chrisfabel, and several of his best 
smaller poems Avere written there. In 1798, the WedgAvoods settled on him 
£150 a year for life ; Avhich enabled him to undertake a tour on the Continent, 
as he had for some time desired to do. Before this, hoAvcvcr, we have one 
item which is sadly significant in reference to his subsequent life. He Avas 
troubled with violent neuralgic pains, Avhich threatened to OA^erpower him. 
" But I took," says he, " betAveen sixty and seventy drops of laudanum, and 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 507 

sopped the Cerberus." That remedy was soon to become worse than the 
disease. 

In the fall of 1798, Coleridge and the Wordsworths made a trip to Germany, 
landing at Hamburg. After an interview with the aged Klop.stock, the two 
poets separated, and Coleridge passed on to Gottingcn, to attend lectures, and 
consort with German students and professors. Of his sojourn in Germany, he 
writes, " I made the best use of my time and means, and there is no period of 
my life to which I look back with such unmingled satisfaction." He was there 
in the school of Kant and his disciples, who were then leading the philosophic 
thought of Germany into new regions. Coleridge drank deep of this stream, 
and thereby qualified himself, perhaps, for the office of a great teacher to his 
nation ; but it may well be doubted whether, on the whole, he gained much, 
either for himself or others, by swamping his fine poetic genius in ideal or 
transcendental metaphysics. Be this as it may, there was at least one good 
result from his knowledge of German thus acquired. He returned to England 
in November, 1799, and his next work was to translate Schiller's Walknstein, 
accomplishing in three weeks what many competent judges regard as the best 
translation ever made of any poem into English. 

This done, Coleridge joined Wordsworth in a tour among the lakes of Cum- 
berland and Westmoreland ; — his first sight of English mountains. About 
this time he became a contributor to the Morning Post, and so continued till 
the close of 1802. He was then in sympathy with Fox and the Whigs, not 
having yet grown to recognise what he afterwards acknowledged to be the 
**' transcendent greatness" of Burke, But the progress of things in France, 
especially as the military despotism of Napoleon towered up in such gigantic 
proportions, was rapidly curing him of that delusion, and was working such 
changes in his mind, that in effect he soon passed over to the side of the Gov- 
ernment. Already his belief in the Unitarian theology had been shaken ; and 
now a closer study of Scripture, together with his hard discipline of suffering, 
was not long in bringing him back to the creed in which he had been reared; 
and he became staunch in his adhesion to the faith and worship of the Estab- 
lished Church. 

In 1801, Coleridge transferred his family to Keswick, in the Lake country, 
where they lived much, if not most, of the time for many years, along Avith the 
Southeys. At this time the poetic season of his genius was already passing 
into " the sere, the yellow leaf," though he was but thirty years old ; the Ode 
to Dejection and a few smaller pieces being all the poetry that came from him. 
In the Spring of 1804, he went to Malta for his health, where he soon became 
knoAvn to the Governor, Sir Alexander Ball, and for some time serA^ed as his 
secretary. He there conceived a great admiration of Sir Alexander, Avhose 
character he afterAvards painted in gloAving colours in The Friend. But he did 
not find at Malta what he went in quest of, and in the Fall of 1805 he returned 
to England. 

It is not easy to keep track of him through the next ten years. Sometimes 
he was Avith his family at KesAvick ; sometimes at Grasmere Avith WordsAvorth ; 
sometimes in London, Avriting for the Courier, or lecturing at the Royal Insti- 
tution. MeauAvhile his only Avork of real importance Avas The Friend, a series 
of weekly essays intended as a help to the formation of opinions in morals, poli- 
tics, and art, grounded on true and permanent principles. The Avork Avas 
continued from June, 1809, to March, 1810, when it AA'as given up because it did 
not pay the cost of publishing. It was afterwards recast and much enlarged, 
and published as a book in 1818 ; and a most instructive book it is too. 

Coleridge's first use of laudantira has already been mentioned. At Malta, 
opium-taking became a confirmed habit, and for ten years quite overmastered 
him. He himself, Avith the utmost frankness, pleads guilty to the evil habit. 
"After my death," says he, " I earnestly entreat that a full and unqualified 
narrative of my wretchedness, and of its guilty cause, may be made public, that 



508 COLEEIPGE. 

at least some little good may be effected by the direful example." He strag- 
gled hard ac^ainst the tyrant habit, but without success. At last he put him- 
self under the care of Dr. Gilman, who lived in a retired house at Highgate, 
and boarded in his family. Here he lived for the remaining eighteen years of 
his life, and with the good doctor's help gained the mastery over himself. 

During this period, the poor, dear, great man laboured with all his might 
to make up for lost time ; and, wreck as he was, he was one of the best and 
wisest of England's teachers. His Two Lay Sermons, his Biographia Literaria, 
his recast of The Friend, his Aids to Reflection, and his Church and State, all of 
them the fruits of this period, were published during his life. A small volume 
on the inspiration of Scripture, and entitled Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit, 
was published after his death. The last three of these works have placed him in 
the highest rank of modern religious philosophers, and through them he has 
probably done more than any other one man to shape the religious thought of 
his countrymen. His Literary Remains, also published since his death, is now 
perhaps our best English text-book of criticism. His circle of thought was in- 
deed prodigious. And perhaps his great mind had its most effective organ 
when he sat the centre of a social gathering, and overflowed in living talk. 
To his retirement at Highgate flocked, as on a pilgrimage, most of what was 
then brilliant in intellect or ardent in youthful genius, to hang upon his spoken 
words ; and in those marvellous conversations the " old man eloquent" poured 
forth treasures of wisdom which became seed-points of intellectual life in many 
of the best minds of his time. 

In the Summer of 1833 Coleridge was for the last time in public, at the meet- 
ing of the British Association in Cambridge. He died at the house of Dr. Gil- 
man on the 25th of July, 1834. 

Here is a brief passage from his nephew, Henry Nelson Coleridge, which it 
would hardly be right to leave unquoted : " Coleridge, — blessings on his gen- 
tle memory! — Coleridge was a frail mortal. He had indeed his peculiar 
weaknesses as well as his unique powers ; sensibilities that an averted look 
would rack, a heart which would beat calmly in the tremblings of an earth- 
quake. He shrank from mere uneasiness like a child, and bore the preparatory 
agonies of his death-attack like a martyr. He suffered an almost life-long pun- 
ishment for his errors, whilst the world at large has the unwithering fruits of 
his labours, his genius, and his sufferings." 

Little room can here be spared for criticism of Coleridge's poetry. — He has 
large variety both of matter and of style ; he abounds in tenderness, delicacy, 
pathos ; has many passages of condensed and close-twisted vigour ; some, of 
austere, soul-lifting grandeur and sublimity ; and not seldom searches the mind 
with happy aphoristic sayings, such as are apt to twine themselves inextrica- 
bly into the reader's memory. His beauty, like that of Wordsworth, always 
lies first and chiefly in the thought ; beauty of language coming in as the con- 
nate incarnation of beautiful thought. Sir Walter Scott, with, I believe, 
Christabel in his mind, pronounced him " the most imaginative poet of the 
age." This may well be doubted ; but even a doubt on that point infers ima- 
gination enough in him to furnish out a whole regiment of ordinary poets. 
Though at all times wonderfully subtile and sinewy of discourse, still I am not 
aware that, in the poems Avritten in the manhood of his genius, he ever lapses 
from good-sense, which is indeed the chief corner-stone of all high poetry. 
Therewithal, next after Wordsworth, he was the most original poet of his 
time : and it may well be questioned whether, in powers of versification, he . 
was not even superior to his great friend. He was indeed a consummate mas- 
ter of rhythmical modulation. And how exquisitely, too, his diction every- 
where feels the swiftest and the finest variations of his mental pulse ! The 
" piercing sweetness " of his lingual melody is well-nigh unequalled : and that 
melody has all the limbemess and subtility of his most subtile and limber 
discourse. 



POEMS 



BY 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



GENEVIEVE. 
Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve I 
-In Beauty's light you glide along : 
Your eye is Kke the star of eve, 
And sweet your Voice as Seraph's song 
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
This heart with passion soft to glow : 
Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
When sinking low the Sufferer wan 
Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save, 
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I've seen your breast with pity heave. 
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 



LOVE. 



All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in ray waking dreams do I 
Live o'er agafii that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armfed man, 
The statue of the armM knight; 
She stood and listeu'd to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 



I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story, — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand; 
And that for ten long years he woo'd 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined; and, ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love 
Intei-preted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face I 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain- woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight; 



And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; — 

509 



510 



COLERIDGE. 



And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees : 
And how she tended him in vain, — 
And ever strove to expiate 

That scorn that crazed his brain; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay; — . 

His dying words,— But when I reach'd 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherish'd long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blush'd with love and virgin-shame; 
And, like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved, — she stepp'd aside. 
As conscious of my look she stepp'd,— 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms. 
She press'd me with a meek embi-ace ; 
And, bending back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 
Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found? 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies. 
From the pomp of scepter'd State, 
From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottaged vale she dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 



Spotless Honour's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
Sorrow smiling through her tears. 
And, conscious of the past employ, 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 



THE ANCIENT MAiUNER.i 

IN SEVEN PARTS. 
PAKT I. 

It is an ancient Mariner, 
Andhe stoppeth one ofthree. [eye, 

'•By thy long grey beard and glittering 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide» 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth he. [loon I" 
"Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye; 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years child: 
The Mariner hath his will.^ 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright- eyed Mariner : - 



1 The Rev. Alexander Dyce, in a letter 
to the poet's nephew, H. N. Coleridge, 
says that Wordsworth, dining with him 
one day in London, told him as follows : 
" The Ancient Mariner was founded on a 
strange dream which a friend of Coleridge 
had, who fancied that he saw a skeleton 
ship, with figures in it. We had both 
determined to write some poetry for a 
monthly magazine, the profits of which 
were to defray the expenses of a little 
excursion we were to make together. The 
Ancient Mariner was intended for this pe- 
riodical, but was too long. I had very 
little share in the composition of it, for I 
soon found that the style of Coleridge and 
myself would not assimilate." Then, after 
remarking that he furnished some ten or 
eleven lines of the poem, Wordsworth ad- 
ded the following : "The idea of 'shoot- 
ing an albatross' was mine; for I had 
been reading Shelvocke's Voyages, which 
pi'obably Coleridge never saw. I also 
suggested the reanimation of the dead 
bodies, to work the ship." 

2 Wordsworth, in his conversation 
Avith Dyce, stated that this stanza was 
furnished by himself. The other lines of 
his were in various parts of the poem. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



511 



" The Bhip was cheer'd, the harbour 
Merrily did we drop [clear'd, 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the light-house top. 

The Sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
"Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon " — 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads, before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner : 

"AndnowtheStorm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He sti-uck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald : 

And through the drifts the snowy clifls 
Did send a dismal sheen; 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken, — 
The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around; [howl'd, 

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and 
Like noises in a swoundl 

At length did cross an Albatross ; 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hail'd it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat» 
And round and round it flew ; 



The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steer'd us through. 

And a good south wind sprang up behind; 
The Albati-oss did follow, 
Aud every day, for food or play. 
Came to the mariners' hollo. 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perch'd for vespers nine ; [white, 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
Glimmer'd the white moon-sliine." 

" God save thee, ancient Mariner, 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so ? " — " With my cross- 
I shot the Albatross." [bow 



PART n. 
" The Sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the leit 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew be- 
But no sweet bird did follow, [hind. 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo. 

And I had done an hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist : 

Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 

Tl>at brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow foUow'd free : 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
'Twas sad as sad could be : [down, 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 



512 



COLERIDGE. 



Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a jjainted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere, 
And all the hoards did shrink; 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ, 
That ever this should be I 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-flres danced at night; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assurM were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us 
From the land of mist and snow.^ 

And every tongue, through utter drought. 
Was wither'd at the root; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

Ah, well a-day I what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was himg." 



PART in. 
There pass'd a weary time. Each throat 
Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye! 
When, looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seem'd a little speck. 
And then it seem'd a mist : 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
And still it near'd and near'd ; 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 



3 A spirit had followed them ; one of 
the invisible inhabitants of this planet, 
neither departed souls nor angels; con- 
cerning which the learned Jew, Josephus, 
and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Mi- 
chael Psellus, may be consulted. They 
are verv numerous, and there is no clim- 
ate or element without one or more. 



With throats unslacked, with black lips 
We could nor laugh nor wail ; [baked, 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, 
And cried, A sail! a sail! 

With throats unslacked, with black lips 
Agape they heard me call : [baked, 

Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! I cried, she tacks no more, 
Hither to work us weal ! 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 
She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well-nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the Sun was fleck'd with 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) [bars. 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd. 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! thought I, and my heart beat loud, 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres? 

Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that Woman all her crew? 
Is that a Death? and are there two? 
Is Death that woman's mate? 

Her lips were red, her looks were fl?ee. 
Her locks were yellow as gold; 
Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
♦ Tlie game is done ! I've won, I've won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
Yvlth far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listen'd and look'd sideways up ; 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 



THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 



513 



My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd 

white; 
From the sails the dew did drip,— 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one blight star 
Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, 
Too qxiick for groan or sigh. 
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropp'd down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it pass'd me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



PART IV. 

«* I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long and lank, and brown 

As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
"Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; and so did I. 

I look'd upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away; 
I look'd upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 

I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray; 
But, or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat ; [the sky 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and 



Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they; 
The look with which they look'd on me 
Had never pass'd away. 

An orphan's curse woidd drag to Hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But, O, more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving Moon went up the sky. 
And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she Avas going up. 
And a star or two beside : * 

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But, where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watch'd the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And, when they rear'd, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watch'd their rich attire ; 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coiPd and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

O happy living things! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare ; 

A spring of love gush'd from my heart, 

And I bless'd them unaware : 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 

And I bless'd them unaware. 

The self-same moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea." 



4 In loneliness and fixedness he yearn- 
eth towards the journeying Moon, and the 
stars that still sojourn," and still move on- 
ward; and everywhere the blue sky be- 
longs to them, and is their appointedVest, 
and their native country, and their own 
natural homes, which they enter unan- 
nounced, as lords that are certainly ex- 
pected, and yet there is a silent joy at 
I their arrival. 



514 



COLERIDGE. 



*' O SLEEP 1 it is a gentle thiug, 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To aiaiy Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck 

That had so long remain'd, 

I dreamt that they were fiU'd with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rain'd. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light, — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fii'e-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about I 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And ihe sails did sigh like sedge ; [cloud ; 
And the rain pour'd down from one black 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reach'd the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their ej-es ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on ; 
Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
Where they were wont to do : 



They raised their limbs like lifeless 
We were a ghastly crew. [tools,— 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I puU'd at one rope, 
But he said nought to me." — 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner! " — 
" Be calm, thou Weddiug-Guest! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For, when it dawn'd, they dropp'd their 
And cluster'd round the mast; [arms, 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
And from their bodies pass'd. [mouths, 

Around, around flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mix'd, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the Heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sail'd on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slow^ly and smoothly went the ship 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snoAV, 
The spirit slid; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. « 
The sails at noon left off their tune. 
And the ship stood still alsd. 



5 The lonesome spirit from the south 
pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, 
in obedience to the angelic troop, but still 
requireth vengeance. 



THE AI^rCIENT MARIJS^ER. 



515 



The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had lix'd her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
Witii a short imeasy motion, — 
Backwards and forwards half her length, 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into mj- head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to delcare ; 
But, ere my living life return'd, 
I heard and in my soul discern'd 
Two Voices in the air.o 

' Is it he? ' quoth one, * Is this the man? 
By Him wlio died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done. 

And penance more will do.' " 



PART VI. 

First Voice. 
'* 'But tell me, tell me f speak again. 
Thy soft response renewing, — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the Ocean doing? ' 

Second Voice. 
* Still as a slave before his lord. 
The Ocean hath no blast; 
His gi-eat bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast, — 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
Sec, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 



6 The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the 
invisible inhabitants of the element, take 

{)art in his wrong; and two of them re- 
ate, one to the other, that penance long 
and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath 
been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who 
returneth southward. 



First Voice. 
' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind?' 

Second Voice. 
' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behincL^ 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more highl 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather ; 

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was 

The dead men stood together.^ [high; 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a chai-nel-dungeon fitter : 
All fix'd on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
Had never pass'd away : 
I could not draw ray eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once more 

I view'd the ocean green. 

And look'd far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen, — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once tuna'd round walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it faim'd my cheek. 
Like a meadow-gale of Spring, — 
It mingled strangely with mj' fears. 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftlyflew the ship. 
Yet she sail'd softly too : 



7 The Mariner hath been cast into a 
trance; for the angelic ]iower causetli the 
vessel to drive northward faster than ha- 
man life could endure. 

The supernatuial motion is retarded ; 
and the Mariner awakes, and his penance 
begins anew. 



516 



COLERIDGE. 



Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze,— 
Ou me alone it blew. 

O, dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see? 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree? 

We drifted o'er the harboui*-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray, — 
O, let me be awake, my God! 
Or let me sleep alwdy. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
Arul the shadow of the Moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 
Till, rising from the same. 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 
I turn'd ray eyes upon the deck, — 

Christ! what saw I there? 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy i-ood! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band each waved his hand : 
It was a heavenly sight! 
They stood as sijjnals to the land. 
Each one a lovely light : 

This seraph-band each waved his hand; 
No voice did they impart, — 
No voice ; but, O ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the Pilot's cheer; 

My head was turn'd perforce away. 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

1 saw a third, — I heard his voice; 
It is the Hermit good! 



He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away 
The Albatross's blood." 



PART VII. 

" This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears 1 
He loves to talk with marinei-es 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn and noon and eve, — 

He hath a cushion plump. 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, 
' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now? ' 

' Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said, 

' And they answer'd not our cheer ! 

The planks look'd warp'd ! and see those 

How thin they are and sere ! [sails, 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy -tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 

That eats the she-wolf 's young.' 

' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 
The Pilot made reply, 
* I am afear'd,'— 'Push on, push on! ' 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirr'd; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound 
Which sky and ocean smote, 
Like one that hath been seven days 
My body lay afloat ; [drown'd 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round; 



THE ANCIEKT MARINEE. 



517 



And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips, — the Pilot shi-iek'd 
And fell down in a fit; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And pray'd where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and tro. 

' Ha, ha ! ' quoth he ' full plain I see. 

The Devil knows how to row. ' 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

♦ O, shrive me, shrive me, holy man ! ' — 
The Hermit cross'd his brow. — 

• Say quick,' quoth he, * I bid thee say, — 
What manner of man ai*t thou?' 

Forth with this frame of mine was Avreuch'd 
With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale; 
And then it lelt me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain houx-. 
That agony returns; 
And, till my ghastly tale is told. 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The Wedding-Guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing ai-e : 
And, hark ! the little vesper bell, 
Wliich biddeth me to prayer 1 

O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemfed there to be. 

O, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
•Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 



To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pi-ay. 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Fare well, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest, — 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
He rose the mon-ow morn.o 



CHRISTABEL. 

[From the PREFACE prefixed to the edition 
0/1816.] 

The first part of the following poem was 
written in the year 1797, at Stovvey in the 
county of Somerset ; the second part, af- 
ter my return Irom Germany, in the year 
1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the 
latter date, my poetic powers have been, 
till very lately, in a state of suspended 
animation. But as, in my very first con- 
ception of the tale, I liad the whole prcs- 
ent to my mind, witli the wholeness, no 
less than with the loveliness of a vision; 
I trust that I shall yet be able to embody 
in verse the three parts yet to come 

The metre of the Christabd is not, prop- 
erly speaking, irregular, though it may 
seem so from its being founded on a new 
principle; namely, that of counting in 
each line the accents, not the syllables. 
Though the latter may vary from seven 
to twelve, yet in each Hue the accents 
will be found to be only four. Neverthe- 
less this occasional variation in number 
of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 
or for the mere ends of convenience, but 
in correspondence with some transition in 
the natux-e of the imageiy or passion. 



9 The author accompanied the text of 
this poem with a running comment in 
prose, axid printed in tlie margin, intend- 
ed to explain the course of the stoxy. So 
much of the common t as seems "at all 
needful for that purpose is here thrown 
into the preceding notes. 



518 



COLERIDGE. 



PART I. 

Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awaken'd the crowing 

Tu— whiti Tu — whoo! [cock; 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir LeoUne, the Baron rich, 
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
From her kennel beneath the rock 
She maketh answer to the clock, [hour ; 
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the 
Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
Sixteen short howls, not over loud : 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark? 
The night is chilly, but not dark : 
The thin grey cloud is spread on high. 
It covers but not hides the sky : 
The Moon is behind, and at the full; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her fsxther loves so well, 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the castle gate? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low. 
And nought was green upon the oak 
But moss and rarest misletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree. 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly. 

The lovely lady, Christabel! 

It moan'd as near as near can be, 

But what it is, she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill; the forest bare : 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek; — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
Tlie one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
That dances as often as dance it can, 



Hanging so light, and hanging high, [sky. 
On the topmost twig that looks up at the 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 
Drest in a silken robe of white. 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
The neck that made that white robe wan, 
Her stately neck, and ai-ms were bare; 
Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were. 
And wildly glitter'd here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess 'twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she, — 
Beautiful exceedingly! 

" Mary mother, save me now ! " 

Said Christabel, " and who art thou? " 

The lady strange made answer meet, 
And her voice was faint and sweet : 
" Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weai-iness. 
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 
Said Christabel, " How cam'st thou 
here? ♦ [sweet. 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and 
Did thus pursue her answer meet: 

" My sire is of a noble line, 

And my name is Geraldine : 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and 

And tied me ou a palfrey white : [fright. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 

And they rode furiously behind, [white ; 

They spurr'd amain, their steeds were 

And once we cross'd the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak; 

He swore they would return with haate; 

Whither they went I cannot tell, — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, 



CHRISTABEL. 



519 



Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she, 

"And help a wretched maid to flee." 

Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 

'• O, well, bright dame, may you command 

The service of Sir Leoliue ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble father's hall." 

She rose : and forth with steps they pass'd 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 

*'^ All our household are at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health 

And may not well aAvakend be ; 

But we will move as if in stealth; 

And I beseech your courtesy. 

This night, to share your couch with me." 

They cross'd the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she open'd straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; [out, 

The gate that was iron'd within and with- 

Where an armj- in battle array had 

march'd out. 
The lady sank, belike through pain, 
And Christabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weaiy weight, 
Over the threshold of the gate : 
Then the lady rose again. 
And moved, as she wei-e not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They cross'd the court: right glad they 

And Christabel devoutly cried [were. 

To the lady by her side, 

"Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 

'•Alas, alas ! " said Geraldine, 

" I cannot speak for weariness." 

So free from danger, free from fear, [were. 

They cross'd the court : right glad they 

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake. 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch? 
Never tiU now she utter'd yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel. 



Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch? 

They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, 
Pass as lightly as you will! [dying. 

The brands were flat, the brands were 
Amid their own Avhite ashes lying; 
But, when the lady pass'd, there came 
A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 
And nothing else saw she thereby, [tall, 
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 
AVhich hung in a murky old niche in the 
" O, softly tread," said Christabel, [wall. 
" My father seldom sleepeth well." 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare; 
And, jealous of the listening air, 
They steal their way from stair to stair, 
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
And now they pass the Baron's room, 
As still as death Avith stifled breath ! 
And now have reach'd her chamber door; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The rushes of the chamber floor. 

The Moon shines dim in the open air. 

And not a moonbeam enters here. 

But they without its light can see 

The chamber carved so curiously. 

Carved with figures sti-ange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain, 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fasten'd to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She ti-imm'd the lamp, and made it bright, 

And left it swinging to and fro. 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

" O, weary lady, Geraldine, 
I pi*ay you, drink this cordial wine f 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers." 

" And will your mother pity me. 
Who am a maiden most forlorn? " 
Christabel answer'd, — " Woe is me I 
She died the hour that I was born. 
I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell, 
How on her death-bed she did say 
That she should hear the castle bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding day. — 
O mother dear, that thou wert here I " 
♦• I would, " said Geraldine, " she werel " 



520 



COLERIDGE. 



But soon with alter'd voice said she, — 
' ' Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
I have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, — 
♦' Off, woman, off! this hour is mine, — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman, off! 'tis given tome." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue, — 
" Alas! " said she, '• this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady, it hath wilder'd you ! " 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
And faintly said, " 'Tis over now ! " 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
And from the floor whereon she sank, 
The lofty lady stood upright; 
She was most beautiful to see, 
Like a lady of a far countr^e. 

And thus the lofty lady spake, — 
" All they who live in the upper sky 
Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
And you love them, and for their sake, 
And for the good which me hefell, 
Even I in my degree will try. 
Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
But now unrobe yourself; for I 
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 

Quoth Christabel, " So let it he I " 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 
But, through her brain, of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro. 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, 
And slowly roU'd her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her bi'eath aloud. 
Like one that shudder'd, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast; 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side — 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
O, shield her I shield sweet Christabel! 



Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs : 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To lift some weight with sick assay. 
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defled 
Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
And lay down by the maiden's side : 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah well-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 

These words did say : [a spell, 
" In the touch of this bosom there worketh 
Which is loi-d of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 

to-morrow, [sorrow : 

This mark of my shame, this seal of my 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare, 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning, [fair : 
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 
And didst bring her home with thee in 

love and in charity, 
To shield her and shelter her from the 

damp air." 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight. 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest, 
Heaving sometimes on her breast; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale, — 
Her face, O, call it fair not pale ! 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear. 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes, (ah, woe is me !) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
Dreaming that alone whi(;h is — 
O, sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? 
And, lo! the worker of those harms. 
That holds the maiden in her arms, 
Seems to slumber still and mild, 
As a mother with her child. 



CHRISTABEL, 



521 



A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
O Geraldine ! since arras of thine 
Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
O GeraMiue! one hour was thine, — 
Thou'st had thy will! By tarn i and rill, 
The night-birds all that hour were still : 
But now they are jubilant anew, [whoo ! 
From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — 
Tu— whoo ! tu— whoo 1 from wood and fell ! 

And see! the lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids 
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds, — 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright! 
And oft the while she seems to smile. 
As infants at a sudden light! 
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
Like a youthful hennitess, 
Beauteous in a wilderness. 
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
And, if she move unquietly, 
Perchance 'tis but the blood so free, 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
"What if her guardian spirit 'twere? 
What if she knew her mother near ? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes. 
That saints will aid if men will call: 
For the blue sky bends over all! 



PART II. 



Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said, 
When he rose and found his lady dead : 
These words Sir Leoline wiU say. 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 
And hence the custom and law began, 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
WTio duly pulls the heavy bell, 
Five-and-fortj' beads must tell 
Bet^veen each stroke, — a warning knell, 
Wliich not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha-Head to Windermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, " So let it knell I 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can! 
There is no lack of such, I ween, 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 



1 Tarn is a small inoimtain lake. See 
page 137, note 6. 



And Dungeon.ghyll2 so foully rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
^Yho all give back, one after t'other, 
The death-note to their living brother; 
And oft too, by the knell offended, 
Just as their one, two, three, is ended. 
The Devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borrowdale." 

The air is still! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud; 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed; 
Puts on her silken vestments white. 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
And nothing doubting of her speU 
Awakens the lady Christabel : 
"Sleep you, SAveet lady Christabel? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same w^ho lay down by her side, — 
O, rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak tree! 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 

vVnd, while she spake, her looks, her air 
Such gentle thankfulness declare. 
That (so it seem'd) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
" Sure I have sinn'd! " said Christabel, 
" Now Heaven be praised if all be well! " 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
Did she the lofty lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly array'd 
Her maiden Umbs, and having pray'd 
That He who on the ci'oss did groan 
Might wash away her sins unknown, 
She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 
The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall. 
And pacing on through page and groom 
Enter the Baron's presence-i'oom. 



2 Glnill is a short, steep, nan'ow val- 
ley, with a stream running through it : so 
used in Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
Several of the names occurring here are 
of places in CumberlaDd, as the author, 
at the time of writing the Second Part, 
was residing at Keswick, in that county. 



522 



COLERIDGE. 



The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same, 
As might beseem so bright a dame! 

But when he heard the lady's tale. 
And when she told her fathei-'s name, 
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again, 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 

Alas! they had been Mends in youth; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And life is thorny; and youth is vain; 
And to be \vroth with one we love. 
Doth Avork like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted, — ne'er to meet again I 
But never either found another 
To free the hoUow heart from paining; — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space, ' 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face; 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

O, then, the Baron forgot his age, 

His noble heart swell'd high with rage ; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry. 

That they who thus had wrong'd the dame 

Were base as spotted infamy I 

'♦And if they dare deny the same. 

My herald shall appoint a week. 

And let the recreant traitors seek 

My tourney court, — that there and then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men! " 

He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady v/as ruthlessly seized ; and 

he kenn'd 
In the beautiful lady the child of his 

friend I 



And now the tears were on his face. 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 

Prolonging it wiih joyous look. 

Which when she view'd, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain I 

She shrunk and shudder'd, and saw again, 

(Ah, woe is me ! was it for thee. 

Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) 

Again she saw that bosom old. 

Again she felt that bosom cold, [sound : 

And drew in her breath with a hissing 

Whereat the Knight turn'd Avildly round. 

Add nothing saw but his own sweet maid 

With eyes upraised, as one that pray'd. 

The touch, the sight, had pass'd away. 

And in its stead that vision blest 
Which comforted her after-rest, 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast, 
And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles like light! 

With new suiT)ri8e, 
" What ails then my belovM child? " 
The Baron said. — His daughter mild 
Made answer, " AH will yet be well! " 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deem'd her sure a thing divine; 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she fear'd she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she pray'd 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay, by my soul! " said Leoline. 
" Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
And take two steeds with trappings proud. 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
And over the mountains haste along, 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has cross'd the Irthing flood, 
My merry bard ! he hastes he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth 
And reaches soon that castle good, [Wood, 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's 
wastes. 



CHRISTABEL. 



523 



«* BardBracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are 

fleet, 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 

sweet, 
More loud than yoiir horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free : 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 
With all thy numerous array ; 
And take thy lovely daughter home ; 
And he will meet thee on the way 
With all his numerous array 
White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
And, by mine honour f I will say, 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine I — 
For, since that evil hour hath flown, 
Many a Summer's Sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 

The lady fell, and clasp'd his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erfl owing; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing: 
" Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet, might I gain a boon of thee, 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me; 
That I had vow'd with music loud 
To clear yon wood fx'om thing unblest, 
Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 
For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
That gentle bird whom thou dost love, 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name,— 
Sir Leoline 1 I saw the same. 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
Which when I saw and when I heard, 
I wonder'd what might ail the bird : 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the grass and green herbs under- 
neath the old ti-ee. 

" And in my dream methought I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peer'd, and could descry 
Ko cause for her distressful cry; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stoop'd, methought, the dove to take, 



When, lol I saw a bright green snake 
Coil'd around its wings and neck, — 
Green as the herbs on which it couch'd, 
Close by the dove's its head it crouch'd; 
And with tlie dove it heaves and stirs, 
Swelling its neck as she swell'd hers 1 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
The clock was echoing in the tower; 
But, though my slumber was gone by, 
This dream it would not pass away,— 
It seems to live upon ray eye ! 
And thence I vow'd this self-same day 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter Uiei-e." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
Half-b'st'ning heard him with a smile; 
Then tum'd to Lady Geraldine, 
His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
And said in courtly accents fine, 
'* Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous 
dove, [song. 

With arms more strong than harp or 
Thy sire and I will ci'ush the snake ! " 
He kiss'd her forehead as he spake, 
And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 
Casting down her large bright eyes, 
With blushing cheek and courtesy flue. 
She tum'd her from Sir Leoline ; 
Softly gather'd up her tiain, 
That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
And folded her arms across her chest. 
And couch'd her head upon her breast, 
And look'd askance at Christabel,— 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well I 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shriink in her 

head. 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 
And with somewhat of malice, and more 

of dread, 
At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
One moment, — and the sight was fled ! 
But Christabel in flizzy trance, 
Stumbling on tlie unsteady ground, 
Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound; 
And Geraldine again tum'd round, 
And, like a thing that sought relief, 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 
She roll'd her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone. 
She nothing sees, — no sight but one f 



524 



COLERIDGE. 



The maid, deroid of guile and sin, 

I know not how, in fearful wise 

So deeply had she drunken in 

That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 

That all her features were resign'd 

To this sole image in her mind ; 

And passively did imitate 

That look of dull and treacherous hate I 

And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 

Still picturing that look askance. 

With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view, — 

As far as such a look could be, 

In eyes so innocent and blue ! 

And, when the trance was o'er, the maid 

Paused awhile, and inly pray'd; 

Then falling at her father's feet, 

" By my mother's soul do I entreat 

That thou this woman send away ! " 

She said; and more she could not say; 

For what she knew she could not tell, 

O'er-master'd by ihe mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
SirLeoline? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same for whom thy lady died! 
O, by the pangs of her dear mother, 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her, and thee, and for no other, 
She pray'd the moment ere she died ; 
Pray'd that the babe for whom she died 
Might prove her dear lord's joy and prid e ! 
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 

Sir Leoline ! 
And would'st thou wrong thy only child. 

Her child and thine? 
Within the Baron's heart and brain 
If thoughts, like these, had any share, 
They only swell'd his rage and pain, 
And did but work confusion there. 
His heart was cleft Avith pain and rage. 
His choeks they quiver'd, his eyes were 
Dishonour'd thus in his old age; [wild. 
Dishonom^d by liis only child. 
And all his hospitality 
To the Tvrong'd daixghter of his friend 
By more than woman's jealousy 
Brought thus to a disgraceful end, — 
Heroll'd his eye with stern regard 
Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
And said in tones abrupt, austere, 
•' Why, Bracy I dost thou loiter here? 
I bade thee hence ! " The bard obcy'd, 



And, turning from his own sweet maid. 
The ag^d knight. Sir Leoline, 
Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART n. 

A UTTLE Child, a limber elf, 

Singing, dancing to itself, 

A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 

That always finds, and never seeks, 

Makes such a vision to the sight 

As fills a father's eyes with light; 

And pleasm-es flow in so thick and fast 

Upon his heart, that he at last 

Must needs express his love's excess 

With words of unmeant bitterness. 

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 

Thoughts so all unlike each other; 

To mutter and mock a broken charm, 

To dally with wrong that does no harm. 

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 

At each wild word to feel within 

A sweet recoil of love and pity. 

And what if, in a world of sin, 

(O, sorrow and shame should this be true !) 

Such giddiness of heart and brain 

Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 

So talks as it's most used to do.3 



3 Much regret, as was natural, has 
been felt, that this strange poem was not 
finished: and various conjectui-os have 
been thrown out, as to how it would have 
ended, had the author canied through his 
design. Some have rather thought the 
poem naturally incapable of being com- 
pleted, and that an instinct of genius to 
this efl'ect was what really kept the author 
from going on, though without his being 
aware of it. But there appears no sufli- 
cient reason to question that he had a de- 
finite plan in his mind, and saw his way 
clearly to a completion of the story ; and 
it is said that, sometimes, on being asked 
how the poem Avas to end, he answered 
substantially as follows: "Geraldine, 
who was wholly evil and supernatural by 
some alliance with the Devil, was to aim 
at the ruin of Christabcl by taking various 
shapes; first, as Ave see lier in the poem, 
afterwards as Christabel's absent lover, 
but without the pov.er of doing entirely 
aAvay Avith a certain hidcousness which 
she concealed under her dress. The a\ ed- 
ding night AA'as to draAV on, and the poem 
to conclude happily by the advent of the 
real loAor returning home." — The mj-ste- 
rious Avitchcry that hangs about this 
piece Avholly fascinates and somewhat be- 
wilders the mind; while the limber and 
finely-modulated rhythm of the verse fills 
the atmosphere of the iJoem with uncloy- 
ing delectation. 



TO THE DEPARTIlfG TEAR. 525 



ODE TO THE DEPAETING YEAE.* 

Aegitment. — The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine Providence, 
that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, however calamitous 
some of them may appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls on men to 6U:?pend 
their private joys and sorrows, and devote them for a while ro the cause of human 
nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the Empress of Russia, who died of an 
apoplexy on the ITth of November, 1796; having just concluded a subsidiary ti-eaty 
with the Kings combined against France. The first and second Antistrophe describe 
the Image of the Departing Year, &c., as in a vision. The second prophesies, in an^ 
guish of spirit, the downfall of this country. 

Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time, 

It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 

Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
Yet, mine eye fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear, 

With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ; 

When, lo ! its folds far Avaviug on the wind, 
I saw the train of the departing year! 

Starting from my silent sadness 

Then with no unholy madness. 
Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight, 
I raised th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 

Hither, from the recent tomb, 
From the prison's direr gloom. 
From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
And thence, Avhere poverty doth waste and languish ; 

Or where, his two bright torches blending. 
Love illumines manhood's maze ; 

Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze ; 
Hither, in perplexed dance. 
Ye Woes, ye young-eyed Joys, advance! 
By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
Whose indefatigable sweep 
Eaises its fateful strings from sleep, 
I bide you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band ! 
From every jirivate bower. 

And each domestic hearth. 
Haste for one solemn hour ; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 

Weep and rejoice! 
Still echoes the dread name that o'er the Earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 

4 This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December, 1796; and 
was first published on the last day of that year. 



526 COLERIDGE. 

And now advance in saintly jubilee 
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 

I mark'd Ambition in his war-array ! 

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry, — 
" Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay ? 
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? '' 
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly! 
Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace, 
No more on murder's lurid face 
Th' insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye! 
Manes of th' unnumber'd slain ! 
Ye that gasp'd on \Yarsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
"When human ruin choked the streams. 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams! 
Spirits of th' uncoffin'd slain, 

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
Oft, at night, in misty train, 

Eush around her narrow dwelling! 
Th' exterminating fiend is fled, — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom,) 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance like death-fires round her tomb I 
Then with prophetic song relate 
Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 

Departing Year, 'twas on no earthly shore 

My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone. 

Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore. 
With many an unimaginable groan 

Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 

Deep silence o'er th' ethereal multitude. 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. 
Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
From the choired Gods advancing. 
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 

Throughout the blissful throng, 
Hush'd were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven 
(The mystic Words of Heaven) 



TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 527 

Permissive signal make : 
The fervent Spirit bow'cl, then spread his wings and spake : 
" Thou in stormy blackness throning 

Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
Seize thy terrors. Arm of might ! 
By Peace with proffer'd insult scared, 
Masked hate and euA^ying scorn ; 
By years of havoc yet unborn. 
And hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared; 
But chief by Afric's wrongs. 
Strange, horrible, and foul ; 

By what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf Synod, ^ full of gifts and lies ; ' 
By wealth's insensate laugh, by torture's howl, — 
Avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven, 0, speak aloud ! 
And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 

0, dart the flash ! 0, rise and deal tlie blow ! 
The Past to thee, to tliee the Future cries ! 

Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below! 
Eise, God of Nature, rise ! " 

The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread. 
And ever, when the dream of night 
Eenews the phantom to my sight. 
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 

Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
And my thick and struggling breath 
Imitates the toil of death ! 
'No stranger agony confounds 

The soldier on the war-field spread. 
When all fordone with toil and wounds. 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 

And the night-wind clamours hoarse! 
See ! the starting wTetch's head 

Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!) 



628 COLERIDGE. 

Not yet enslavecl, not wholly vile, 
Albion ! my mother Isle ! 
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, 
Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 

Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 
• Proudly ramparted with rocks ;) 
And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his island-child. 

Hence for many a fearless age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
Nor ever proud Invader's rage 
Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. 

Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide, 
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride, — 
'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood. 
And join'd the wild yelling of famine and blood! 
The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering 
Shall hear Destruction, like a Vulture, scream I 
Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream 
Of central fires through nether seas upthuudering 

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 

O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
. Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. 

Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing, — 
And, hark ! I hear the f amish'd brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
Away, my soul, away ! 
I unpartaking of the evil thing, 
With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
Have wail'd my country with a loud Lament. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 



FBANCB. 529 



FRANCE. AN ODE. 



Ye Clouds, that far above me float and pause, 

Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 

Ye Ocean-Waves, that, wheresoe'er ye roll, 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods, that listen to the night-birds singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. 
Save when your own imperious branches swinging 

Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! 

ye loud Waves ! and ye Forests high ! 
And ye Clouds that far above me soar'd ! 

Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 
Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 
With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

When France in wrath her giant limbs uprear'd, 

And with that oath which smote air, earth, and sea, 

Stamp'd her strong foot, and said she would be free, 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd ! 
With what a joy my lofty gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
And when, to whelm the disenchanted nation, 

Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
The Monarchs march'd in evil day, 
And Britain join'd the dire array; 

Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 

Had swoln the patriot emotion. 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, Liberty! with partial aim 

1 dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; 

But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 



630 COLERIDGE. 

" And what/' I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 

With that sweet music of deliverance strove! 

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 

Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! " 

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled. 
The dissonance. ceased, and all seem'd calm and bright; 

When France her front deep-scarred and gory 

Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
When, in supportably advancing, 

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp; 
While timid looks of fury glancing. 

Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp. 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 

Then 1 reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; 
"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." 

Forgive me. Freedom ! 0, forgive those dreams I 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent, — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish 'd. 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 

With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherish'd 
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes! 

To scatter rage and traitorous guilt, 

AVhere Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all th^it made their stormy wilds so dear; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer, — 
France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. 

And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ? 
To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey? 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
From freemen torn ? to tempt and to betray ? ^ 

5 Coleridge's Table Talk, under date July 23, 1832, has the following: "No man 
was more enthusiastic than I was tor France and the Revolution : it had all my 
wishes, none of my expectations. Before 1793, 1 clearly saw, and often enough stat- 



FEARS IK SOLITUDE. 531 

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain 1 
Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
Didst breathe thy~soul in forms of human power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
(Not prayer, nor boastful name delays thee,) 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! 
And there I felt thee ! — on tliat sea-ciiS's verge, 

Whose pines, scarce travelled by tbe breeze above, 
Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 
Possessing all things with intensest love, 
Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
Febkuary, 1797. 



FEARS m SOLITUDE. 

(Written in April, 1798, during the alarm of an invasion.) 

A GREEN" and silent spot, amid the hills, 
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
All golden with the never-bloomless furze. 
Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell, 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, 

ed in public, the horrid delusion, the vile mockery of the whole affair."— The subju- 
gation of Switzerland Avas long a favourite object with the revolutionary leaders in 
France. Machinations to that end were begun as early as 1791; and in the Fall of 
1792, the National Convention unanimously passed a decree which placed France 
openly at war with all established governments. A military invasion of Switzerland 
soon followed ; and the sanguniary work was continued from time to time till 1798, 
when, at length the French carried through their purpose. This wanton and unpro- 
voked assault on the ancient freedom and independence of the Swiss disenchanted 
many of tlie sympathisers with the French cause, botli in England and elsewhere. 
Sir James Mackintosh denomiced it as " an act in comparison with which all the 
deeds of rapine and bloodshed perpetrated in the Avorld are innocence itself." But 
the Swiss did not at that time stay conquered ; and the final extinction of their old 
Confederacy did not take place till 1802. Perhaps, alter all, that great crime has 
earned our thanks, in having prompted the composition of this mighty Ode. See 
page 192, note 6. 



632 COLERIDGE. 

AYhen, through its half -transparent stalks, at eve, 
The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
O, 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
Which all, methinks, would love ; hut chiefly he, 
The humble man, who, in his youthful years, 
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
His early manhood more securely wise ! 
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath, 
While from the singing lark, (that sings unseen 
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) 
And from the Sun, and from the breezy air, 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
Made up a meditative joy, and found 
Eeligious meanings in the forms of Nature 1 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
And dreaming hears thee stil], singing lark. 
That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 

My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren, — my God ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
What nproar and what strife may now be stirring 
This way or that way o'er these silent hills, — 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
And undetermined conflict, — even now. 
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: 
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun ! 
We have offended, my countrymen ! 
We have offended very grievously. 
And been most tyrannous. From East to West 
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
Countless and vehement, the sons of God, 
Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, 
Even so, my countrymen, have we gone forth 
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
With slow perdition murders the whole man, 
His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home, 
All individual dignity and power 
Engulf'd in courts, committees, institutions. 



FEARS IK SOLITUDE. 633 

Associations and societies, 

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild. 

One benetit-club for mutual flattery. 

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, 

Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 

Contemptuous of all honourable rule, 

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 

Of Christian promise, words that even yet 

Might stem destruction, were they wisely preach'd, 

Are mutter'd o'er by men whose tones proclaim 

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade ; 

Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 

To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 

0, blasphemous ! the book of life is made 

A superstitious instrument, on which 

We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 

For all must swear, — all and in every place. 

College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 

Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 

All, all make up one scheme of perjury. 

That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 

Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy. 

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 

(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, 

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon. 

Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 

And, hooting at the glorious Sun in heaven, 

Cries out, " Where is it ? " 

Thankless too for peace, 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas,) 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
Alas! for ages ignorant of all 
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry-snows,) 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, 
No speculation or contingency. 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth 



534 COLERIDGE. 

( Stuff 'd out with big preamble, holy names, 

And adjurations of the God in Heaven) 

We send our mandates for the certain death 

Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls. 

And women that would groan to see a child 

Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 

The best amusement for our morning meal ! 

The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 

From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 

To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 

Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 

And technical in victories and defeats. 

And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 

Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 

Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 

We join no feeling and attach no form ! 

As if the soldier died without a wound ; 

As if the fibres of this godlike frame 

Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch 

Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 

Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd ; 

As though he had no wife to pine for him, 

1^0 God to judge him! Therefore evil days 

Are coming on us, my countrymen ! 

And what if all-avenging Providence, 

Strong and retributive, should make us know 

The meaning of our words, force us to feel 

The desolation and the agony 

Of our fierce doings ! 

Spare us yet awhile. 
Father and God ! 0, spare us yet awhile ! 
0, let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes. 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laugh'd at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure I 
Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 



FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 535 

And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Eender them back upon th' insulted ocean, 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea- weed, whicli some mountain-blast 
Swept from our shores ! And, 0, may we return 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
Repenting of the wrongs with w^hich we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 

I have told, 
O Britons ! my brethren ! I have told 
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them 
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 
Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
All change from change of constituted power ; 
As if a Government had been a robe. 
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd 
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
A radical causation to a few 
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile. 
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images. 
And yield them worship, they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deem'd 
But, dear Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
A husband, and a father; who revere 
All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
native Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy 
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 
AH sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
All adoration of the God in Nature, 
All lovely and all honourable things. 



536 COLERIDGE. 

Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
Unborrow'd from my country. divine 
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
Loving the God that made me ! 

May my fears. 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away 
In the distant tree ! which, heard, and only heard, 
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
The light has left the summit of the hill. 
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewT'll, 
Farewell, awhile, soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
Homeward I wind my way ; and, lo ! recall'd 
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And, after lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surroundecl nook, 
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main. 
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
And elmy fields, seems like society, — 
Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought. 
And now, beloved Stowey, I behold 
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
And my babels motlier dwell in peace. With light 
And quicken 'd footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Eemembering thee, green and silent dell ! 
And grateful, that by JsTature's quietness, 
And solitary musings, all my heart 
Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 
Nether Stowey, April 28, 1798. 



HYM:N^ to MONT BLANC. 537 



HYMN BEFOKE SUN-EISE, IN THE VALE OF 
CHAMOUNY.« 

Besides the Rivers Ai-vb and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of 
Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and, within a few paces 
of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its '• flowers 
of loveliest blue." 

Hast tliou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity. 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating Soul — enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty Vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale ! 
0, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ; 

6 It having: been mentioned to Mr. Wordsworth, that Coleridge had said a visit to 
the battle-field of Marathon would raise in him no kindling emotion, Wordsworth 
replied as foUoAvs : " O, that was mere bi-avado for the purpose of astonishing his 
hearers! And yet it might in some sense be true, for Coleridge was not under the 
influence of external objects. He had extraordinary powers of summoning up an 
image or series of images in his own mind; and it might be that he meant that bis 
idea of Marathon was so vivid, that no visible observation could make it more so. 
A remarkable instance of this is his poem, said to be composed in the Vale of Cha- 
mouui ! Now he never was at Chamouni, or near it, in his life" 



538 COLERIDGE. 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald ; wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! 
ATho sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
Who filFd thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded, (and the silence came,) 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye tliat from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? AVho, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost ; 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ; 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ; 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; 
Ye signs and wonders of the element, — 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 



THE EOLIAN HARP. 539 

To rise before me, — rise, 0, ever rise, 
Eise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



THE EOLIAN HAEP. 

(^Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire.) 

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 

With white-flower'd jasmin and the broad-leaved myrtle, 

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 

Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 

Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 

Snatch'd from yon bean-field ! and the world so hush'd ! 

The stilly murmur of the distant sea 

Tells us of silence. 

And that simplest lute. 
Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark! 
How by the desultory breeze caress'd. 
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 
It pours such sweet upbraiding as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise, — 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
0, the one life within us and abroad. 
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 
Ehythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere, — 
Methinks it should have been impossible 
Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air. 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 



540 COLERIDGE. 

And thus, my love! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; 
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, 
And many idle flitting phantasies. 
Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed. 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, 
At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject. 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak of Him, 
Th' Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
I praise Him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
Who with His saving mercies healed me, 
A sinful and most miserable Man, 
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid ! 



REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF 
EETIEEMENT. 

Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 



REFLECTIONS ON RETIREMENT. 541 

A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen : metliouglit it calm'd 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and look'd 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. 
And sigh'd, and said it was a Blessed Place. 
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note, 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings,) in whisper'd tones 
I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
The inobtrusive song of happiness. 
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, 
And the heart listens ! " 

But the time, when first 
From that low dell steep up the stony mount 
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top, 
O, what a goodly scene 1 Here the bleak mount. 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep; 
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields; 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, 
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood, 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; 
The Channel there, the Islands and white sails, 
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean, — 
It seem'd like Omnij^resence ! God, methought. 
Had built Him there a temple : the whole World 
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference. 
No luisli profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour ! It w^as a Luxury; — to be ! 

Ah, quiet dell, dear Cot, and mount sublime ! 
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right. 
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled. 
That I should dream away th' entrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
And he that works me good with unmoved face 
Does it but half : he chills me while he aids. 
My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
Yet even this, this cold beneficence. 
Praise, praise it, my Soul! oft as thou scann'st 



643 COLERIDGE. 

The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 

Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 

Nursing in some dehcious solitude 

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 

Active and Srm, to fight the bloodless fight 

Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 

Yet oft when after honourable toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose. 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes, — sweet abode! 
Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
It might be so, — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, Father ! Let Thy kingdom come I 



THIS LIME-TEEE BOWER MY PRISON. 

In the June of 1797, some long-expected friends paid a visit to the Author's Cot- 
tage; and on the morning of tlieir arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled 
him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had 
left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the Garden-Bower. 

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 

This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost^ 

Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 

Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 

Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile. 

Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 

On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 

Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance. 

To that still-roaring dell of which I told; 

The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep. 

And only speckled by the mid-day Sun ; 

Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock 

Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash, 

Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 

Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 

Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends 

Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,^ 

That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 

7 The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some oounti-ies the Adder's Tongue, in 
others the Hart's Tongue ; but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial 
name of the Ophioglossmn only. 



MY LIME-TBEE BOWER. 543 

Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
Of the blue clay-stone. 

Now, my friends emerge 
Beneath the wide wide heaven, — and view again 
The many-steepled track magnificent 
Of hilly tields, and meadows, and the sea, 
Witli some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
Of purple shadow. Yes ! they wander on 
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
And hunger'd after Nature, many a year, 
In the great City pent, winning thy way, 
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
And strange calamity. Ah! slowly sink 
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
Shiue in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 
Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
And kindle, thou blue ocean ! So my Friend 
Struck with deep Joy may stand, as I have stood, 
Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round 
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
Less gross than bodily ; and of sach hues 
As veil th' Almighty Spirit, when He makes 
Spirits perceive His presence. 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower. 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd 
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
Dappling its sunshine. And that walnut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
Those fronting elms, and now with blackest mass 
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
Through the late twilight : and though now the bat 
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, 
Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
No waste so vacant, but may well employ 



544 COLERIDGE. 

Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ; deeming, its black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory. 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or, when all was still. 
Flew creeking o'er thy head,^ and had a charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 

(Composed on the night after his recitation of a Poem on the Growth of an IndividtuU Mind.) 

Frieitd of the Wise, and Teacher of the Good ! 
Into my heart have I received that lay 
More than historic, that prophetic lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
Of the foundations and the building up 
Of a Human Spirit, thou hast dared to tell 
What may be told, to th' understanding mind 
Revealable ; and what within the mind 
By vital breathings, like the secret soul 
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words ; — 

Theme hard as high, 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth;) 
Of tides obedient to external force. 
And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
Or by some inner power; of moments awful, 
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, 
When ]")ower streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
The light reflected, as a light bestow'd ; 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
Hj^blean murmurs of poetic thought 

8 Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to observe that 
Bf^rtram had observed the same eircumstaiice of the Savanna crane. "When these 
Bii-ds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular; and 
even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we i)lainlyhear the quill- 
feathers ; their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints or working of a 
vessel in a tempestuous sea." 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 645 

Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ; 
Or on the lonely high-road, Avhen the stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 
The guides and the companions of thy way. 
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and man beloved as man. 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
Amid a mighty nation jubilant. 
When from the general heart of human kind 
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! — 
Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 
So summon'd homeward, thenceforth calm and sure. 
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self. 
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
Far on, — herself a glory to behold. 
The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice. 
Action and joy! — An Orphic song indeed, 
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
To their own music chanted ! 

great Bard! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
With steadfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
Have all one age, and from one visible space 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. 
Are permanent, and Time is not with them, 
Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred roll than those of old, 
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a linked lay of truth. 
Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes! 
Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn 
The pulses of my Being beat anew : 
And even as life returns upon the drown'd. 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains, — 
Keen pangs of love, awakening as a babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 



546 COLERIDGE. 

And fears self-wilFd, that shunn'd the eye of hope ; 
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, 
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
And all which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild, 
And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all, 
Commune with thee had opened out, — but Flowers 
Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
In the same coffin, for the self -same grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
Singing of glory and futurity, 
To wander back on such unhealthful road, 
Plucking the poisons of self -harm! And ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
Strew'd before thy advancing ! 

Nor do thou, 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
By pily or grief, already felt too long ! 
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
Amid the hoAvl of more than wintry storms, 
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve. 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd. 
And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
In silence listening, like a devout child. 
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars. 
With momentary stars of my own birth. 
Fair constellated foam,® still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
Outspread and bright, yet Gwelling to the Moon. 

And when — Friend ! my comforter and guide, — 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
Thy long-sustained Song finally closed. 
And thy deep voice had ceased, — j^et thou thyself 
Wert still before my ej^es, and round us both 

9 "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals coursed by the side 
of the vessel Avith a i-oar, and little stars of flame danced and spai-kled and went out 
in it: and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted 
off from the vessel's side, each with its OAvn small constellation, over the sea, and 
scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness." — The Friend. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 547 

That happy vision of beloved Faces, — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close, 
I sate, my being blended in one thought, 
(Thought was 't ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 
Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound ; 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 



THE NIGHTINGALE; 

A CONVEESATION POEM. APKIL, 1798. 

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the WestJ no long thin slip 

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And, hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!^° 

A melancholy bird ? 0, idle thought ! 

In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced 

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

(And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with himself, 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

Of his own sorrow,) he, and such as he. 

First named these notes a melancholy strain : 

And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 

When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 

By sun or moon light, to the influxes 

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 

And of his fame forgetful : so his fame 

Should share in Nature's immortality, 

A venerable thing ! and so his song 

10 This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere de- 
scription. It is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has therefore a 
dramatic propriety. The author makes this I'emai'k, to rescue himself from the 
charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton. — See page 119, note 7. 



548 COLERIDGE. 

Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the Spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music 1 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales ; and far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song,- 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all ; 
Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
That, should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 
That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space. 
What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, 



FKOST AT MIDNIGHT. 549 

Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon, 
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
Many a nightingale perch'd giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
Farewell, Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
And you, my friends, farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ? 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe 
Who, capable of no articulate sound 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it Avise 
To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well 
The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream,) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once. 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears. 
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends, farewell ! 



FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 

The frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud, — and, hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
Have left me to that solitude which suits 
Abstruser musings ; save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 



650 COLEllIDGE. 

And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme sileniness. 8ea, hill, and wood, 
This populous village! — sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings-on of life, 
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not : 
Only that film which flutter'd on the grate 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks its motion in this hush of Nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
Making it a companionable form. 
To which the living spirit in our frame, 
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, 
Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. 

How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft, 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
Luird me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ; 
And so I brooded all the following morn. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book ; 
Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up. 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike. 

Dear babe, that steepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ; 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 



DEJECTION. 551 

Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
Great universal Teacher, He shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
Whether the Summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve-drops fall, 
Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 



DEJECTION: A]^ ODE. 

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 

With the old Moon in her ai'ras; 

And I fear, I fear. m\ Master dear! 

We shall have a deadly storm, — Sir Patrick Spencob. 

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
TJnroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this ^olian lute. 
Which better far were mute. 
For, lo ! the new Moon winter-bright, 
And overspread with phantom light, 
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread, 
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,) 
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And 0, that even now the gust were swelling, 

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me whilst they awed, 

And sent my soul abroad. 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 



553 COLEKIDGE. 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear, — 

Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
Have I been gazing on the western sky. 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze, — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen; 
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 

My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avail. 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 

It were a vain endeavour. 

Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the "West : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are .within. 

Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does nature live : 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth ; 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 

O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be ; 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 



DEJECTION. 553 

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower; 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud, — 
Joy is the SAveet voice, Joy the luminous cloud, — 

We in ourselves rejoice! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 

All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
AH colours a suffusion from that light. 

There was a time when, though my path was rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress, 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Wlience Fancy made me dreams of happiness: 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine. 
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth ; 
Nor csjLre I that they rob me of my mirth : 

But ! each visitation 
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man, — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan; 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out 
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without. 

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn^ or blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 



554 COLERIDGE. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds, — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! 
But, hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence; 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings, — all is over, — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud I 
A tale of less affright. 
And temper'd with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay; 
'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Kot far from home, but she hath lost her way ; 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth ! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
Their life the eddying of her living soul ! . 

simple spirit, guided from above. 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
Thus mavst thou ever, evermore rejoice! 



TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE 

WHO ABAKDOKED HIMSELF TO AN IlifDOLENT AND CAUSELESS 
MELANCHOLY. 

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 

Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 

To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go, 

Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear 

Moan haply in a dying mother's ear : 

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 

O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd. 



TO THE RIVER OTTER. 555 

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 

Was slanghter'd, where o'er his iincoffin-d limbs 

The flocking flesh-birds scream'd ! Then, while thy heart 

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 

Know, (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind,) 

What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 

abject ! if, to sickly dreams resign'd. 

All effortless thou leave life's common-weal 

A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. 



TO A FRIE:N'D who asked, how I FELT WHEX THE XURSE 
FIRST PRESENTED MY i:S"FANT TO ME. 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy : 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit'burst 
All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 
And hanging at her bosom, (she the while 
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,) 
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm 
Impress'd a father's kiss : and, all beguiled 
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear, — 
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
So, for the mother's sake the child was dear, 
And dearer was the mother for the child. 



TO THE EIVER OTTER. 

Dear native brook ! wild streamlet of the West ! 

How many various-fated years have past, 

What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 

I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 

Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 

Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 

I never shut amid the sunny ray, 

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 

Thy crossing-plank, thy marge with willows grey. 

And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies, 

Gleam'd through thy bright transparence ! On my way, 

Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 

Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 

Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 



556 COLERIDGE. 

WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

All Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair — 

The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing, 

And Winter, slumbering in the open air. 

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away 1 
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
And hope without an object cannot live. [1837. 



LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 

O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of Education, — Patience, Love and Hope. 
Methinks I see them group'd, in seemly show. 
The straighten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
And robes that, touching as adown they flow. 
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow. 
0, part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. 

Love too will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
From her own life that Hope is yet alive; 
And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes. 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half -supplies : 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
Yet haply there will come a weary day. 

When overtask'd at length 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth. 
And, both supporting, docs the work of both. 



ROBERT BURNS 

SKETCH or HIS LIFE. 



Robert Burns, the greatest of Scotland's poets, was born the 25th of Jan- 
uary, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the 
banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle, and county of Ayr. He was the 
eldest of seven children, the next after hira being Gilbert, whose name is often 
met with in connection with the poet's. At the time of his birth, and for some 
seven years after, his fiither was in the employment of a Mr. Ferguson as gar- 
dener and overseer ; living all the while, however, in his own house, his wife 
managing her family, and her little dairy, which consisted of two or three 
cows. In this service he won the entire respect and confidence of Mr. Fer- 
guson ; who accordingly leased him a farm of about ninety English acres at 
Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr; and also lent him a hundred pounds 
to aid in stocking the farm. To this place he removed in the Spring of 1 766. 
At the age of six years, Robert was sent by his father to a school at AUoway, 
about a mile distant, taught by Mr. John Murdoch. Under his instruction, 
Robert and Gilbert pursued their studies together, and with much success ; 
their father's " dearest wish and prayer being, that he might have it in his 
power to keep his children under his OAvn eye till they could discern between 
good and evil." " At those years," says the poet, " I was by no means a fa- 
vourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a 
stubborn, sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. 
I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the school- 
master some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar, and by the time 
I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and par- 
ticles." 

The farming at Mount Oliphant did not prosper ; the land being poor, and 
various adversities falling upon the family. I quote from Gilbert Burns : " To 
the buffetings of misfortune we could only oppose hard labour and the most 
rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For several years butcher's meat 
was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted them- 
selves to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of 
the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop 
of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no 
hired servant, male or female." — By the terms of the lease, the lessee had a 
right to tlirow it up, if he chose, at the end of every sixth year. He tried to 
better himself at the end of the first six years, but, failing in this, he continued 
there six more : he then took the farm of Lochlea, 130 acres, in the parish of 
Tarbolton, and removed thither in the Spring of 1777. As the contract was 
not in writing, a misunderstanding arose, the decision of which involved the 
lessee's affairs in ruin. There the poet's father died in February, 1784, after 
an occupancy of about seven years. 

The acquisitions which Burns made, and the poetical talent he displaA^ed, 
under the })ressure of early and incessant toil, show at once the extraordinary 
force and activity of his mind. In the various labours of the farm, he ex- 
celled all his competitors. IJis brother Gilbert says that in mowing, the exer- 
cise that tries all the muscles most severelv, Robert was the only man that, at 

557 



558 BURNS. 

the end of a Summer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. 
But while the poet gave his powers of body to the labours of the farm, his 
thoughts were elsewhere. Whether " following his plough along the moun- 
tain-side," or wielding his scythe in the hay-field, he was humming the songs of 
his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of 
fancy. On Sundays he was wont to indulge in free intercourse with the 
charms of Nature. It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the 
Ayr, and listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the Summer's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave 
among the trees; and more elevated still his delight to ascend some eminence 
during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit while the lightning 
flashed around him, and, amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostrophize 
the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable to devo- 
tion — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on the 
wings of the unnd! " 

In the Summer of 1781, as his father had concluded to try flax-growing, the 
poet went to Irvine to learn the trade of dressing flax. While thus at work, 
his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from his father's family. Even 
there misfortune pursued him. " As we were giving," says he, " a welcome 
carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was 
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — Soon after their father's death, 
the poet and his brother collected together what little property law and mis- 
fortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, 118 acres. Their mother 
superintended the dairy and the household, while they undertook for the rest. 

It appears that love and poetry shot up together in the soul of Burns ; and 
that the love-shoots came pretty early in life. It was at the age of fifteen that he 
first began to feel the power of "dear, deluding woman," his Parnassus at that 
time being a stubble-field, and his inspirer a fair-haired girl from whose hands 
he picked the thistle-stings. And so onward the Muses from whom he caught 
his inspirations were various "lasses" who came within the circle of his 
acquaintance. "My heart," says he, "was completely tinder, and was eter- 
nally lighted up by some goddess or other; and, as in every other warfare in 
this world, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes mortified 
with repulse." One of these heroines was a servant in the family of General 
Stewart, of Afton : Burns, during a visit with David Sillar, is said to have 
left one of his songs, which was soon chanted in bower and hall, and attracted 
the notice of Mrs. Stewart, a beautiful and accomplished lady, who sent for the 
poet on his next visit, and by her remarks and praise confirmed his inclination 
to lyric verse. 

Thus, before the removal to Mossgiel, poetry had become a passion with 
Burns. Without any settled plan of study, he composed at the plough, at the 
harrow, and with the reaping-hook in his hand ; and commonly had several 
poems in progress, taking them up as his mood of mind suited the theme, and 
laying them down as he grew careless or tired. 

Meanwhile a bad form of evil was working itself deeply into his habits. 
Many farmers on the sea-coast were engaged in contraband trade ; and Burns, 
though perhaps taking no part in the traffic, associated with those M'ho carried 
it on; thinking, apparently, that insight into new ways of life, and human 
character, would more than compensate the risk. But, as Cunningham ob- 
serves, in his Life of Burns, " it is dangerous for a bare hand to pluck a lily 
from among nettles ; men of few virtues and many follies are unsafe compan- 
ions." Gilbert tells us that at Irvine his brother "had contracted some ac- 
quaintance of a freer manner of thinking, whose society prepared him for over- 
leaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him." This 
evil tendency was no doubt strengthened by the fierce theologic Avarfare which 
was agitating the Kirk between the two factions known as the Old Light and 
the New Light. Burns himself sided with the latter; and as he was gifted 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 559 

with a vein of tlic most powerful and pungent satire, here was a mark for his 
wit too inviting for him to i-efrain. In this wretched warfare his genius got 
infected with the worst venom of theologic rancour : the poems in which he 
harrowed the Old Light arc indeed terrible for their satire, but their wit does 
not redeem their profanity. " I now began," says Burns himself, " to be known 
in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring 
that saw the light was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two rev- 
erend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in my Holy Fair." 

The poet's first serious love-passage, so tiir as we know, was with her whom 
his divine song To Mary in Heaven has taught lis to reverence so tenderly. 
This girl was Mary Campbell, a peasant's daughter, who, at the time she cap- 
tivated Burns, was serving in the humble capacity of dairymaid in the Castle 
of Montgomery. She was beautiful, but she had something better than beauty. 
She returned the poet's affection with the fer.vour of innocence and youth. 
" After a pretty long trial," says Burns, " of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
tion, we met, by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered 
spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell, before 
she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her 
friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the Autumn following, 
she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed, when 
she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave 
in a few days, before I could even learn of her illness." How deep and true 
was his religion towards this gentle creature, is shown by the songs wherein he 
celebrates so pathetically her person and her virtues. 

He had another love-entrancement in which Jean Armour was the heroine. 
Jean's father was exceedingly rigid in his piety, and a staunch believer in the 
glory of the Old Light, and she was his favourite child. He would not tolerate 
the addresses of " a profane scoffer ; " and so the lovers had recourse to stolen 
meetings under the cloud of night, and twilight interviews under the green- 
wood tree. This perilous courtship resulted in the poet's being likely to be- 
come " a f^ithcr before he was a husband." The father, on learning his daugh- 
ter's condition, was overwhelm.ed with grief; and when, on her knees before 
him, she implored forgiveness, and showed " the marriage lines," — as the pri- 
vate acknowledgment of marriage, without the sanction of the Kirk, was 
called, — he snatched the certificate from her, threw it into the fire, and com- 
manded her to think herself no longer the poet's wife. Jean trembled and 
obeyed : forgetting that Burns was still her husband in the sight of Heaven, 
and according to the laws of man also, she refused to see him, or listen to 
aught he could say. 

AH this was felt by Burns as a most crushing affliction : at times he fairly 
went frantic from the effects of it. Duty, however, and affection alike held 
him true and steadfast to Jean Armour. Some time after her sickness, he went 
to visit her, and was received with due civility. Jean held np a pretty female 
infant to him : he took it lovingly in his arms, and after a while returned it to 
the mother, asking the blessing of God upon her and her infant. He was 
turning away to converse with other people present, when Jean said archly, 
" But this is not all, — here is another baby," and handed him a male child 
born at the same tin)e. He was much surprised, but took that child too in his 
arms, and repeated his blessing upon it. On a later occasion, when the Ar- 
mours were doing their utmost to exclude him, he made his way into the house, 
and flew to the bod where the mother and infants were lying, and, putting his 
cheek to Jean's, and then to those of the sleeping babes, wept bitterly. All 
this shows conclusively what stuff the poet's heart was made of 

Some time before, Burns had made arrangements for publishing a volume of 
his poems ; and now, amidst all these miseries and sufferings, he brought out 
that volume which first told the world that a new and mighty poet had risen in 
the land. The volume made its appearance in July, 1786, and the poems were 
everywhere received with the most eager admiration and delight. 



560 BURNS. 

At this time Burns was in despair of being: able to live in Scotland, and had 
determined on seeking refuge in the West Indies, where he had engaged to serve 
as overseer on an estate belonging to Dr. Douglas. The poems were now 
bringing him some considerable returns in money ; and as soon as he was mas- 
ter of nine guineas, the price of carrying him across the Atlantic, he took a 
steerage passage on the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde. But it so 
happened at this time that the Rev. Mr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, a kind 
and steadfast friend of Burns, had sent a copy of the poems to the blind poet. 
Dr. Blacklock, of Edinburgh. This drew a Tetter from Blacklock, which gave 
a new turn to affairs. I must give the matter in the poet's own Avords : 

" I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
of a jail, as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law 
at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest Avas on 
the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, — 'The gloomy night is gathering fast,' — Avhen a letter from Dr. 
Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew all my schemes by opening new pros- 
pects to my poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a set of critics for 
whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I should meet Avith 
encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition fired me so much, that aAvay 
I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of intro- 
duction." 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in November, 1786, and arriA'ed the second day 
after, having performed the journey on foot. Within a month after his arrival, 
he Avas in the midst of the first society both for rank and talent. Jane, Duch- 
ess of Gordon, then the leader of fashion in the Scotch metropolis, appreciated 
his poetry, and eagerly patronized him. Lord Monboddo, Dr. Robertson, Dr. 
Blair, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Adam Ferguson, Mackenzie the novelist, and Mr. 
Eraser Tytler, all extended to the rustic poet the Avarmest and most generous 
encouragement. 

Nor Avas he a whit spoiled by all this homage. His native good sense carried 
him through it unhurt. Nothing could be more manly and dignified than the 
manner in Avliich he received the praises and attentions of fair ladies and learned 
divines. No thought of forsaking his original calling appears to have entered 
his mind. He returned gladly to the home and friends of his youth. He re- 
ceived £500 for the Edinburgh edition of his poems, and was thus enabled, 
soon after, to take a farm, called Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, and also 
to lend his brother Gilbert £180 to enable him to support the family on that of 
Mossgiel. 

He Avas no sooner possessed of a house of his OAvn than he made the only 
reparation he could to Jean Armour. He priA'ately married her the latter end 
of April, 1788, and the next month took her to his ncAv dAvel ling-place. But 
misfortune still dogged his steps. The farm proved a ruinous undertaking. 
Burns was finally compelled to give it up, and remove into the tOAvn of Dum- 
fries, Avhere he remained till his death. He supported his family on his income 
as an exciseman, — £50 per annum, — the only appointment, under GoA^ern- 
ment, Avhich his friends had been able to procure him. Debt and difficulties 
gathered round his path ; and an accidental circumstance, which occurred in 
January, 1796, brought physical suffering also on the sad struggling years of 
the great Scottish poet. He had sat late one CA^ening at the Globe TaA^ern, 
and on his return home, overcome by drowsiness, and, alas ! slightly intoxi- 
cated, he sank doAA^n on the snoAv, and slept for some hours in the open air. A 
severe cold, from the effects of Avhich he never recovered, fblloAved. Change of 
air and sea-bathing Avere tried for the restoration of his health in vain. On the 
18th of July he became unable to stand. His mind sank into delirium, unless 
when roused by conversation ; the fever increased rapidly, and on the fourth 
day " the sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius terminated, and a life was 
closed in which virtue and passion had been at perpetual variance." 



POEMS 

BY 

ROBERT BURNS 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their iiomely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 

The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 

1 My loved, my honoiir'd much respected friend ! ^ 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 

With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

2 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
The shortening winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 

And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 

3 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 
His we bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

1 Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom the poem was inscribed. —For explanation of 
Scottish terms, see Glossary at the end of the poems by Burns. 



562 BURNS. 

4 Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youtht'u' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown. 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

5 Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
Anticipation forward points to view. 

The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as Aveel's the new: 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

6 Their masters' an' their mistresses' command. 
The younkers a' are warned to obey; 

An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to juuk or play: 
" An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
An' mind your duty duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 

7 But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 

Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

8 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,^ 
A strappan youth ; he tak's the mother's eye ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye : 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

2 Into Uie spence or parlour. Such is ofteu the force of 6en. 



563 



But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave : 
The mother, wi' a woman's wdles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashf u' an' sae grave ; 
TVeel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

9 happy love, where love like this is found ! 
heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare, — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." 

10 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 

11 But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid : 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

12 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God 1 " he says, with solemn air. 

13 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 



664 BURNS. 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise. 
Or plaintive Martyrs^ worthy of the name : 
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame. 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

14 The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
How Abram was the friend of God on higli ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

15 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in HeaA^en the second name. 
Had not on Earth whereon to lay His head : 
How His first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the Sun a mighty angel stand; [command. 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 

16 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

17 Compared with this, how poor Eeligion's pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art, 

When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 



cotter's SATURDAY KIGHT. 565 

18 Then homeward all take off their several way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 

The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the hest, 
For them and for their little-ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

19 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
. And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 

What is alordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refined ! 

20 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! 
And, ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 

21 Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
0, never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !^ 

3 The characters and incidents, which the poet here describes in so interesting a 
manner, are such as his lather's cottage presented to his observation: they are such 
as may everywhere be found among the virtuous and intelligent peasantry of Scot- 
land. *' I recollect once he told me," says Professor Stewart, " when I Avas'admiring 
a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking 
cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not 
witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which thev contained." With 
such impressions as these upon his mind, he has succeeded in delineating a charm- 
ing picture of rural innocence and felicity. The incidents are well selected, the 
characters skilfully distinguished, and the whole composition is remarkable for the 
propriety and sensibility which it display s. — Dr. Irvixg. 



666 BURNS. 



TO THE OWL. 

Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth. 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? 
Is it some blast that gathers in the North, 
Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower ? 

Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade. 
And leaA^es thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn ? 
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade ? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train, 
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom ; 
No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. 

Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain. 
And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song : 
Sing on, sad mourner ! to the night complain, 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break ? 
Less hap23y he who lists to pity's call ? 

Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet. 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 
That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. 

Nor that the treble-songsters of the day 
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee ; 
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 

From some old tower, tliy melancholy dome, 
While the grey walls and desert solitudes 
Eeturn each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; — 

There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee 
Than ever lover to the nightingale; 
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling talc. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



567 



THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. 

TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil.i 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgathcr'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Csesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 2 
His hair, his size, liis mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But walpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
But, though he was o' high degi-ee, 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he; 3 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin 
Even wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' 
him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhj-ming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him. 
And in his freaks hath Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,< 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how 

lang. 
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke : 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face 



1 Kvle, or Coil, the poet's native prov- 
ince, derives its name from Coilus, King 
of the Picts. 

2 Oae of these representative dogs, 
Luath, was a real character, and belonged 
to Burns himself. Casar, the Newfound- 
land dog, was a fictitious character, ere- 
ated bv the poet for the purpose ot chat- 
ting w'ith his favourite Luath. The broth- 
ers, Henrv and Hugh Cowan, said they 
happened* to be aiding Burns and his 
father with a load of wood at Coilsfield, 
when the poet's collie and the collared 
Newfoundlander met and grew very so- 
cial. Burns looked at them often, and 
smiled, yet said nothing: but when the 
poem was published, they knew to what 
period his thoughts had wandered. 

3 This old Scottish phrase seems to 
have the force merely of a strong nega- 
tive; the English equivalent being, "the 
devil a bit of pride had he." 

4 Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hm-dies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; [kit ; 
Wi' social nose Avhyles snuflfd and snow- 
VMiyles mice an' moudieworts they how- 
kit; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion. 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion; 
Until, wi' daffin' weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort of o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 
Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, an' a' liis stents: 
He rises when he likes himseP ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow lelter'd Geordie keeks. 
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' though the gentry first are stechin', 
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright Avastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fasht 
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, [enough; 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, an' sic like. 
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep 
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health or Avant o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 



568 



BURNS. 



An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hun- 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, [ger : 
They're raaistly wonderfu' contented : 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit. 
How huff'd, and cuflPd, and disrespeckit! 
Lord, man ! our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear 
He'll appi-ehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae vrretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided; 
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grusliie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fireside : 
An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell Avhat new taxation's comin'. 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
As bleak-faced Hallowmass ^ returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns. 
When rural life, o' every station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the Earth. 
That merry day the year begins. 



5 The old festival of Hallowmas, or All 
Saints, falls on the 1st of November. 



They bar the door on frosty win's; 
The nappy reeks Avi' mantling ream. 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; 
The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin-mill 
Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house; 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit Avi' them. 
Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thraug a-parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his soul indeutin'. 

C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 

For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it! 

Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him. 

An' saying ay or no's they bid him : 

At operas an' plays parading. 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 

Or maybe, in a frolic daft. 

To Hague or Calais tak's a waft. 

To make a tour, and tak' a whirl. 

To learn bun ton, an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ! 

Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 

To thrum guitars, and fetcht AVi' nowt: 

Then bouses drumly German Avater, 

To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter. 

For Britan's guid 1 — for her destruction! 

Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They Avaste sea mony a braw estate? 
Are AA^e sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last? 
O, would they stay aback frae Courts, 
An' please themselves Avi' countra sports. 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter 1 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their iimmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 



5G9 



But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure gi-eat folk's life's ii life o' pleasure I 
Xae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't needna fear them. 

CJESAR. 

Lord, man.were ye but whyles whare I am. 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Through Winter's cauld, or Simmer's 

heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their 

banes, 
An' fill auld age with gi'ips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae i-eal ills perplex them, 
They mak' enow themsels to vex them; 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt thorn. 
A country fellow at the pleugh. 
His acres till'd, he's right eueugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzcns done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'udown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haef^ hails them, yet uueasy; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless : 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Tlieir galloping through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then so^rther a' in deep debauches : 
The ladies arm-in-ann in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion prettj-; 
Or lee-lang nights, Avi' cvabbit leuks 
Pore o\we the devil's pictured beuks; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the Sun was out o' sight, 

An' darker gloaming brought the night : 



The bum-clock ^ humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' tlie loan : 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way. 
Resolved to meet some ither day.8 



TAM O' SmiXTER. A TALE.i 

" Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this 
Buke." Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
An' drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are weariu' late, 
An' folk begin to tak' tlie gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, an' stiles, 
That lie between us an' our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
Gatherin' her brows like gatherin' stonn, 
Nursin' her wratli to keep it warm. 



6 Dcil hact, or fie7it haet, is another petty 
oath of negation"; equivalent to nothing at 
all. See page 507, note 3. 



7 The humming-beetle that files about 
in the summer twilight. 

8 Never were two dogs so exquisitely 
delineated. Their gambols, before they sit 
down to moralize, are describe<l witli an 
equal degree of happiness ; and, through 
the whole dialogue, the character, as 
well as tlie difterent condition, of the two 
speakers is kej)t in view. The dogs of 
Burns, except in their talent for moi-ali- 
zation, are downright dogs; and not like 
the horses of Switt, or the hind and pan- 
ther of Di-yden, men in the shape of 
brutes. The true dogs are constantly 
kept before our eyes; and the contrast 
between their fomi and character as dogs, 
and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heighten the liuihour and deepen the im- 
pression of the poet's satire. — Currik. 

1 The original of Tam o' Shanter was 
an individual named Douglas Grahame, 
a Carrick farmer. Shanter is a fiirm on 
the Carrick shore, near Kirkoswald, 
whicli Grahame long possessed. The 
man was, in sober truth, the " bletherin', 
blusterin' blellum" that the poet has de- 
scribed; and his wife was as veritiible a 
lady who most anxiously <liscouraged 
drinking in her husband." Burns, when 
a boy, spent some time at Kirkoswald, in 
the house of a maternal uncle, who at 
once practised the craft of a miller and 
sold home-brewed ale. To this house, 
Grahame and Ids brotlier-in-law, the for- 
mer of Duquliat, used to resort ; and. find- 
ing in Burns some (pialities whicli, boy as 
he was, recommended him to their atten- 
tion, they made him every thing but their 
drinking" companion. 



570 



BURN^S. 



This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Aj-r, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men an' bonny lasses.) 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A bletherin', blusterin', drucken blellum ; 
That, frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou wast na sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 2 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on ,3 
The smith and thee gat roarin' fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank Avi' Kirkton Jean* till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,[Doon ; 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 
How many lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises. 

But to our tale : Ae market-night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny ,5 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronj' ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither! 
The night drave on wV sangs an' clatter; 
An' aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gi-acious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! 



2 MeJder is grain sent to the mill to be 
ground. The meaning here is, that every 
time he carried corn to the mill he sat to 
drink w^ith the miller. 

:> As often as any nag of his required 
shoeing. 

4 Jean Kennedy, a public-house keep- 
er at Kirkoswald. In Scotland, the vil- 
lage where the parish church stands is 
called Kirkton, that is, kirk town. 

5 Souter Johnny is John the shoe- 
maker. 



As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleas- 
ure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! « 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ! 

Or like the snow-fall in the river, 

A moment white,— then melts for ever; 

Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the stoi-m. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast on; 
And sic a night he tak's the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swal- 

low'd; [low'd: 

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bel- 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg,) 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, an' rain, an' fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots son- 
net; 
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 



6 The poet fears not to tell his reader 
in the outset, that his liero was a desper- 
ate and Scottish drunkard, whose exces- 
ses were frequent as his opportunities. 
This reprobate sits down, to his cups 
while the storm is roaring and heaven 
and eai'th are in confusion; the night is 
driven on by song and tumultuous noise; 
laughter and jest thicken as tlie l)everage 
improves upon the palate; conjugal fidel- 
ity archly bends to the service of general 
benevolence: selfishness is not absent, 
but wearing the mask of social cordiality ; 
— and while these vai'ious elements of hu- 
manity are blended into one proud and 
happy composition of elated spirits, the 
anger of the tempest without doors only 
heightens and sets ofl" the enjoyment with- 
in. —I pity him who cannot perceive that 
in all this,*^though there was no moral pur- 
pose, there is a moral efl'ect. — Words- 

WOETH. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 



571 



Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Wliare ghaists an' houlets nightly cry. 
By this time he was cross the tord, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman 

smoor'd; 
An' past the birks an' meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
An' through the whins, an' by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the mnrder'd bairn ; 
An' near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's raither hang'd hersel'. 
Before him Doon pcui's a' his floods ; 
The doublin' storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash Irae pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll; 
When, glimmerin' thro' the groanin' trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancin'; 
An' loud resounded mirth an' dancin'. 

Inspirin' bold John Bai-leycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst mak' us scorn! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil! 
The swats saeream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair plaj^ he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel an' hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow! Tarn saw an unco sight! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, an' reels 
Put life an' mettle i' their heels. 
At Avinnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzy tyke, black, grim, an' large, 
To gie them music Avas his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes an' gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl! 
Collins stood round, like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
An' by some devilish cantraip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light. 
By whicli heroic Tam was able 
To note, upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had sti-ingled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 



The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible an' awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed an' curious, 
The mirth an' fun grew fast an' furious : 
Tlie piper loud an' louder blew ; 
The dancers quick an' quicker flew; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
An' coost her duddies to the vvark, 
An' linket at it in her sark! 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had they been queans 
A' plump an' strappin, i' their teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder 

linen ; ^ 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles. 
For ane blink o' the bonnie burdies' 
But wither'd beldams, old an' droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lo\\T)iu' an' flingin' on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' 

brawlie : 
" Thei-e was ae winsome wench an'walie,"^ 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
An' perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
An' shook baith meikle corn an' bear, 
An' kept the country-side in fear.) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, ami she was vauntie. 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my Mnse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power: 
To sing how Nannie lap an' flang, 
(A souple jade she was an' Strang,) 
An' how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
An' thought his verv een enrich'd ; 



7 A technical phrase for linen woven 
in a reed of 1700 divisions. It means linen 
of the finest quality. 

8 Quoted li-om Allan Ramsay. 



572 



BURNS. 



Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain, 
An' hotch'd an* blew Avi' might an' main ; 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a'thegither, 
An' roars out, «' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! '* 
An' in an instant a' was dai-k : 
An' scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

"When plunderin' herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes 

When, pop I she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When " Catch the thief! " resounds aloud ; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah,Tam! ah,Tam! thou'ltgetthyfairin'! 
In Hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
An' win the key-stanes of the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
An' flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle, — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
An' left poor Maggie scarce a stump I 

Now, Avha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cuttj^ sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear; 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.i 



9 It is a well-known fact, that witches, 
or any evil spirits, have no power to fol- 
low a poor wight any further than the 
middle of the next running stream. It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the 
benighted traveller, that when he falls in 
with bogles, whatever danger mav be in 
his going forward, there is much more 
hazard in turning back. — Burns. 

1 Upon this poem Sir Walter Scott has 
the following: "In the inimitable tale of 
Tamo* Shanter, Burns has left us sufficient 
evidence of liis ability to combine the 
ludicrous Avith the awful. No poet, with 
the exception of Shakespeare, ever pos- 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.a 

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow- 
ers, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. 
Milton. 
O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges ^ about the brunstane cootie, 
To scaud poor WTetches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor dammed bodies be : 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel! 

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name : 
An', tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion. 
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest 

Tirlin the kirks ; [flyin', 

Whyles in the human bosom pryin'. 

Unseen thou lui-ks. 



sessed the power of exciting the most va- 
ried and discordant emotions with such 
rapid transitions." To this I must add a 
choice bit from Campbell: "Burns has 
given the elixir of life to his native dia- 
lect. The Scottish Tam o' Shanter Avill be 
read as long as any pi-odiiction of the 
same century. The impression of his 
genius is deep and universal. Into Tam 
o' Shanter he has poured the Avhole Avitch- 
ery of song, — humorous, gay, gloomy, 
terrific and sublime." 

2 It was, I think, in the Winter of 1784, 
as AA-e were going Avith carts foi- coals to 
the family fire, that Robert first repeated 
to me the Address to the Deil. The curious 
idea of such an address Avas suggested to 
him by running over in his mind the many 
ludicrous accounts and representations 
we have from various quarters of this au- 
gust personage. — Gilbert Burns. 

3 We see the Deil standing at a large 
boiling A'at, with something like a golf bat, 
striking the liquid this Avay and that way 
aslant, AA'ith all his miglit| making it fly 
through the Avhole apavtnicnt, Avliile the 
inmates are Avinking and holding up their 
arms to defend their faces. This is pre- 
cisely the idea conveyed by spairges. — 
The Ettrick Shepherd. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



573 



I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray; 
Or, where aiild ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the Moon, 
Te fright the nightly wanderer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft 'yont the dyke she's Jieai'd you bum- 

Wi' eerie drone ; [min', 

Or, nistlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down Avi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, myscl', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 
WTien, Avi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — 

Amang the springs [quack, 

Away ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, O! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yeU's the bill.* 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
Then w-ater-kelpies haunt the foord 

By your direction, 
An' 'nighted travellers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 
Delude his eyes, 



4 Asmilkless as the bull. — ^aicAfe is 
the favourite cow. — A Scottish pint 
equals two English quarts; so that a 
twal-pint cow is a cow that gives twenty- 
four quarts of milk a day. 



Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Xe'er mair to rise. 

When masons' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, sti-ange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Aff straughttoHell! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shared. 

The raptured hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flowery sward, 

In shady bower : 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog., 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit dxtds an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present you smoutie pliiz 

'Mang better folk. 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' hrak him out o' house an' hall, 
\YhLle scabs an' blotches did him gall 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl. 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin* fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,^ 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thiukin' 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin' ; 
Some luckless hour aa-IU send him linkin' 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin'. 

An' cheat you yet. 

But fare you weel, auld Xickie-ben ! 
O, wad ye tak' a thought an' men'. 



5 Alluding to the representation given 
in Paradise Lost, Book vi. 



574 



BURNS. 



Ye aiblins might— I diiina ken — 

Still hae a stake : 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake 1 « 



THE VISION. 

The Sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play ,8 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 

The lee-lang day had tired me ; 

And whan the day had closed his e'e, 

Far i' the West, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
Thatfill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin'; 
An' heard the restless rations squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this raottie, misty clime, 

I backward mused on wasted time, 

HoAvI had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done naething. 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 



6 Burns even pities the veiy Diel, with- 
out knowing, I am sure, that my uncle 
Toby had been beforeliand there Avith 
him. "He is the father of curses and 
lies," said Dr. Slop, '• and is cursed and 
damned already." "I am sorry for it," 
said my uncle Toby. A poet without love 
were a physical and metaphysical impos- 
sibility. — Carlyle. 

7 Dunn is a term used by Ossian for 
the divisions of a digi-essive poem. 

8 Curling is a game played with stones 
on the ice; CuWers, the players at it. The 
game resembles bowls, but is much more 
animated; hence aptly called *'roarinq 
play." ^ 



I started, muttering. Blockhead I coofi 
And heaved on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath, — 

When, click 1 the string the snick did 
And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; [draw; 
An' by my inglc-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, ^B 

Come full in sight. flj 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whist; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as ecrie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet.like modest worth, she blush t, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly mai-kfed in her face; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg Avas scrhnply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae sti-aught, sae taper, tight and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hne. 

My gazing Avonder chiefly drew; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, 

A lustre grand; [threw 

And seem'd, to my astonish 'd view, 

A Avell-known laud. 

Here, rivers in the sea Avere lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies Avere tost : 
Here, tumbling billoAA-s mark'd tlie coast 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 

floods; 
There, Avell-fed Irvine stately thuds : 



THE visioisr. 



575 



Auld hemiit Ayr staw through his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
AjQd many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head;^ 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race 
To everj' nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair. 

Or mins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern : 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to 

With features stem. [dare, 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race heroic AAiieel,! 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturd}' blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem to reel 

Their Southron foes. 

His Country's Saviour.^ mark him well! 
Bold Richardton's 3 heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark* who gloi-ious fell, 

In high command; 
And he whom i-utbless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade ^ 
Stalk'd rouud his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldiei'-featured, un dismay 'd 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild romantic grove,6 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove, 



9 Ayr, whose charter dat«s from the 
beginning of the thirteenth centuiy. 

1 The heroic race of the Wallaces. 

2 Sir William AVallace. 

3 Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cou- 
sin of Sir William. 

4 Wallace, Laird of Craigie, Avho was 
the second in command at the battle on 
the banks of Sark, in 1448. The victorj* 
was chiefly owing to his conduct and val- 
our; but lie died of his wounds alter the 
action. 

5 Coilus, King of the Picts, from Avhom 
the district of Kyle is said to take its 
name, lies buried," as tradition says, near 
the family seat of the Montgomeries of 
Coilsfield. 

6 Barskiimuing, the seat of Sir Thomas 
Miller, at one time Lord Justice-Clerk, 



(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe, 
The learned sire and son I saw; ^ 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore. 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That, to adore. 

Br7.-done's brave ward^ I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, Ioav standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Whare many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DCAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; 
A whispering tlirob did Avitness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail, my own inspirM bard! 
In me thy native Muse regard ; 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ; 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

Know, the great geinus of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their laboxirs ply. 

They Scotia's race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Cori-uption's heart; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The timeful art. 



aftevAvards President of the Court of Ses- 
sion. 

7 The Rev. Dr. MatthCAV Stewart, dis- 
tinguisbetl as a mathematician, and his 
son, Professor Dugald StCAvart, the cele- 
brated metaphysician. Their villa of 
Catrine Avas situated on the Ayr. 

8 Referring to Colonel Fullarton. 



576 



BUENS. 



*Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's i*oar, 

They sightless stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

And when the bard or hoary sage 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspirfed tongue; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minsti-el Lays ; " 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays." 

To lower orders are assign'd 

The humbler ranks of human-kind, 

The rustic bard, the labouring hind. 

The artisan : 
All choose, as various they're inclined, 

The various man. 

When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threatening storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train. 

Blithe o'er the hill. 

Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the labourer's weary toil. 

For humbler gains. 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

Some, boiinded to a district-space. 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the cmbryotic trace 

Of i-ustic bard ; 
And careful note each opening grace, 

A guide and guard. 

Of these am I, — Coila my name; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells,^ chiefs of 
Held ruling power: [fame, 



I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 
Thy natal hour. 

With future hope I oft would gaze, 

Fond, on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely-caroU'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncoi;th rhymes. 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar;- 
Or, when the North his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

Or, when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd every floweret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In every grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

When ripen'd fields and azure skies 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

When youthful love, warm-blushing, 

strong. 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adorM name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 

I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven.2 

I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 



9 Alluding to Beattie's Essajt/ on Truth, 
Avhich was meant as a refutation of 
Hume's sceptical reasonings. 

1 The Loudoun branch of the Camp- 



bells is here meant. Mossgiel and much 
of the neighbouring land then belonged 
to the Earl of Loudoun, 
2 See page 159, note 3. 



OK PASTOKAL POETRY. 



577 



Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 

Adown the glade. 

Then never murmur or repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

. Nor kings' regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, — 
A rustic Bard. 

To give my counsels all in one, — 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect; 
And tiTist, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

And wear thou this," — she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved! 
In chase o' thee, what croAvds hae swerved 
Prae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ! 
And, och! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang. 
And sock or buskin 3 skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang. 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
^schylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 



3 The sock and the buskin are the an- 
cient symbols, respectively, of comedy 
and tragedy. 



Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatianfame; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame.* 

But thee, Theocritus, ^ wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 

O' heathen tatters : [patches 

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's wliistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And, wi' the far-famed Grecian, share 

A rival place? 

Yes I there is ane ; a Scottish callan, — 
There's ane : come forrit, honest Allan I^ 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,^ 

A chiel sae clever; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love. 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



4 See page 154, note 4. 

5 A native of Syracuse, and the father 
of bucolic poetry as a branch of Greek 
literature. He lived in the latter part of 
the third century before the Christian era. 
His bucolic idyls are still held by many 
to be the best ever written. — Maro is one 
of Virgil's names. 

Allan Ramsay, author of the Gentle 
Shepherd. 

7 Hallan is a partition wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf out- 
side. — Tantallan is the name of a moun- 
tain. 



578 



BURNS. 



TO A M0USE.8 

Wee, sleekit, cowerin', timorous beastie, 
O, Avhat a panic's in thy bi'castie 1 
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social \mion. 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which mak's thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

And fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
Wliat then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave ^ 

'S a sma' request ; 
I'll get a blessin' wi* the lave, 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin I 
Its silly Ava's the win's are strewin' I 
An' naething now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen I 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary Winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 

Buti house or hauld. 
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane 
In proving foresight may be vain! 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain 

For promised joy. 



8 A farm servant was driving the 
plough which Burns held, when a mouse 
ran before them. The man would have 
killed it, but was restrained by the poet. 
Hence originated this gem of song. 

9 An ear of corn in twenty -four sheaves ; 
that is, in a thrave. 

1 But is here equivalent to without. 
The usage is not peculiar to Scotland. 
Shakespeare has it repeatedly. 



Still thou art blest, compared wi* me I 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, cell ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, though I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
WATER.2 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Embolden 'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer pride. 
Dry-withering, Avaste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpin', glowerin' trouts, 

That through my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat Avi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by. 
That, to a bard, I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Ev'n as I was he shored me; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad adored me. 

Here, foaming dOAVn the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees. 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 



2 Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceed- 
ingly picturesque and beautiful ; but their 
effect is miicli impaired by the want of 
trees and shrubs.— Burns. 



CASTLE-GORDOK". 



579 



Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wandei- on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock,3 wax'bling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspii-e ; 
The gOAVdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and melloAv; 
The robin pensive Autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storms; 
And coward maukins sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy forms : 
The shepherd here shall make his seat. 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat. 

From prone-descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds, with all their wealth. 

As empty idle care : 
The flowers shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heaven to grace. 
And birks extend their fragrant amas 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And ej^e the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain grey; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering tlirough the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing sti'eam, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And viCAV, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wateiy bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy clifl"s adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embowering thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land! 



3 Laverock is lark; gowdspink, gold- 
finch; lintwhite, linnet; mavis, thrush. 



So may through Albion's farthest ken. 

To social flowing glasses, 
Tlie grace be— " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses 1 " * 



CASTLE-GORDON. 
Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Never bound by Winter's chains! 

Glowing hei*e on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tj-rants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the bm-ning ray 

Hapless wretches, sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way. 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
"Woods that ever verdant wave 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the gi'oves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods Avave, 
By bonny Castle-Gordon.^ 



4 It seems that this poem had the de- 
sired efl"ect. So we learn from Chambers ; 

Trees have been thickly planted along 
the chasm, and are now far advanced to 
maturity. Throughout this young forest 
a walk has been cut, and a number of 
fantastic little grottoes erected for the con- 
venience of those Avho visit the spot." — 
Professor Walker, also, notes upon the 
poem as follows ; " Burns passed two or 
three days with the Duke of Athole, and 
was highly delighted by the attention he 
received. By the Duke's advice he visit- 
ed the Falls of Bruar; and in a few days 
I received a letter from Inverness, with 
the above verses inclosed." 

5 Burns conceived the idea of these 
vei'ses during a brief visit to Gordon Cas- 
tle in 1784 ; wrote them down as he hur- 
ried south, and inclosed them to James 
Hay, the Duke's librarian. The Duchess 
guessed them to be written by Beattie, 
and, when told they were Avritten by 
Burns, wished they had been in the Scot- 
tish dialect. 



580 



BUENS. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 
A VEET YOUNG LADY.6 

(Written on the blank leaf of a book presented 

to her by the Author.) 
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never mayst thou, lovely flower, 
Chilly shrink in sleety shower I 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf 1 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew 1 

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgefal sound, 
Shed thy dying honours roimd, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.7 



POOR MAELIE'S ELEGY.s 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Pasta' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear 

In Mailie dead. 



6 The young lady who inspired these 
beautiful lines was then only twelve years 
old. 

7 Burns often intimated his friendships 
or attachments — in verse or prose, on the 
blank leaf of a ftivorite book, and then 
presented the volume to the object of his 
regard. He was mostly attached to ladies 
whose voices were sweet and harmoni- 
ous, orwho excelled in music. — Walkek. 

8 The sheep, whose death occasioned 
this strain of laughing grief, or weeping 
mirth, is described as " the author's only 
pet yowe." 



Thro' a' the totin she trotted by him; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithful ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence 

Through thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image, in her yowe,i 
Comes bleating to him, owi'e the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For MaiUe dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy liips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae 'yont the Tweed : 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing, — a rape ! 2 
It mak's guid fellows gim and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tnne ! 

Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead.s 



1 Mailie's ewe lamb, or " yowie," that 
she had been nursing. 

2 Poor Mailie was tethered in a field 
near the poet's house at Lochlea. She 
got entangled in the rope, and was thrown 
into a ditch; hence her death. 

3 The pi'inciple of love, Avhich is the 
great characteristic of Burns, often mani- 
fests itself in the shape of hiunour. Ev- 
eryvA^here, in his sunny mood, a full buoy- 
ant flood of mirth runs through his mind : 
he i-ises to the high and stoops to the low, 
and is bi-other and plajonate to all Nat- 
ure. He has a bold and ii-resistible fac- 
ulty of cai-icature; this is drollery rather 
than humour. A niuch tenderer sportful- 
ness dwells in him than this, and comes 
forth here and there in evanescent and 
beautiful touches ; as in his Address to a 



THE AULD FARMER'S SALUTATIOif. 



581 



THE AULD FA^RI^IER'S 

NEW- YEAR MORNING SAIATTATION TO HIS 

AuLD Mare INIaggie, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOIVIED RIPP 
OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A GUID New Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to tliy auld baggie : 
Tho' thoii's howe-backit now an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-OAvre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glalzie, 

A bonny grey : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize 

Ance in a day. [thee 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yii'd; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank 

Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere : 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel- won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to avoo my Jenny, 
Ye then Avas trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Though ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie. 

An' uuco sonsie. 

That day ye pranced wi muckle pride, 
Wlien ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air! 
Kyle Stewart I could hae bragged wide, 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hoble, 
All' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day yc was a j inker noble, 
For heels an' win' ! 



Mouse, or The Farmer's Auld Mare, or in 
Poor MaUie ; which last may be reckoned 
his happiest effort in this kind.— Car- 

LYLE. 



An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young an' skelgh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' 

An' tak' the road ! [skreigh, 

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't an' I was meUow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 

For pith and speed; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their 

An' gar't them Avhaizle : [mettle, 
Nae whip nor sptir, but just a wattle 

O' sough or hazle. 

Thou was a noble flttie-lan',* 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

In guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-flU'd briskit, 

Wi' pith and power, 
Till spritty knowess would rair't and 

An' slypet owre, [risket, 

When frosts lay lang an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or Simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The stej^esfc brae thou Avad hae fac't it; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,^ 

Then stood to blaw; 
But just thy step a Avee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa'. 



4 The near horse of the hindmost pair 
at the plough. That is the post of honour 
in a plough-teani. 

5 Hillocks Avith tough-rooted plants in 
them. ^Risket is a noise like tlie tearing 
of roots. 

6 Never leaped, and reared, and started 
forward. 



582 



BURIES. 



My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';' 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst ; 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the Aveary warl' hae fought! 
An' monie an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

An' think na, my auld, trusty servan'. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin'. 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin'; 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
We'll toyte aboiit wi' ane anither : 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A LOUSE. 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET 
AT CHURCH. 

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferliel 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith I in some beggar's haffet squattle : 
There ye may creep an' sprawl an' sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 



7 My plough-team now are all thy 
children. 



Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rills, snug an' tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it. 
The vera tapmost, towering height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose 
As plump and grey as onie grozet : [out, 
O, for some raiik, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell red smeddum; 
I'd gie sic ye a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum! 

I wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy. 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat : 
But Miss's fine Lunardi,8— fie I 

How dare ye do't! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abreadi 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! , 

O, wad some power the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

An' foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And e'en devotion"! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspir6d fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? 

Let him draw near; 
And OAvre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng? 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer. 



8 Lunardi made two ascents in his bal- 
loon from the Green of Glasgow in 1785. 
It appears that a certain fashion of ladies* 
bonnets was named from the aeronaut. 



TO A MOUNTAIISr DAISY. 



583 



Yet runs, himself, life's mad career 

Wild as the wave? 
Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend! Whether thy soul 
Soai-s Fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 

In low pursuit; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
- Is wisdom's root. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TUENING ONE DOWN WITH THE 

PLOUGH, IN APKIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the de^vy Aveet, 

Wi' spreckled breast. 
When upward-springing, bUthe, to greet 

The purpling East. 

Cauld blew the bitter- biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun 

shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie stibble-fleld. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 



Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'dl 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er I 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striven. 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink 1 

Ev'n thou who moum'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine, — no distant date : 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom! 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
KOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle gi-een, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace. 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his agfed head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
Shall bloom tliat wreath thou well hast 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, [won; 
Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



684 



bur:n^s. 



TO MISS LOGAN, 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW 

YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Theii* annual round have driven, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale.9 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charged, perhaps too ti'ue; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



A PRAYER, 

LEFT BY THE AUTHOR IN THE ROOM 

WHERE HE SLEPT AT THE HOUSE 

OF A REVEREND FRIEND. 

O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above ! 

I know Thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere. 

The hoary sire, — the mortal stroke, 
liong, long, be pleased to spare 1 

To bless his little filial flock. 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a mother's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears I 

Their hope, tlieir stay, then- darling youth. 
In manhood's daAvning blush ; 

Bless him, Thou God of love and truth. 
Up to a parent's wi sh ! 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

AVith earnest tears I pray,— 
Thou know'st the snares on every hand, — 

Guide thou their steps alway I 

When, soon or late, they reach that coast. 
O'er life's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A family in Heaven !i 



9 Edwin is the hero's name in Beattie's 
Mi.nstrd. 

1 The first time Robert licard the spin- 
net played upon was at the house of Dr. 
Lawrie, then minister or Loudoun. Dr. 
Lawrie had several daughters: one of 
them played; the father and mother led 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 

FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY 

FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

♦' Should the poor be flattered? " — 

Shakespeare. 

But now his radiant course is run. 
For Matthew's course was bright; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heavenly light 1 

O Death, thou tyrant fell and bloody! 
The meikle Devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn ! 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Prae man exiled I 

Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,* 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing nunibers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens I 
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens! 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi toddlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flowers. 



down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet, and tlie other guests 
mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced 
to the world. His mind was" roused to a 
poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas wei'c 
left in the room where he slept. — Gil- 
bert Burns. 

4 That is, eagles; so called, from their 
flying without that motion of the wings 
common to most other birds. 



Oiq^ SEI^TSIBILITY. 



585 



At da^vIl, when ever}'^ grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head; 
At even, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r the rustling gale ; 
Ye niaukins whiddin' thro' the glade, 

Come, join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud; 

Ye whistUng iDlover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ! 

He's gane for ever. 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake. 

Mourn, clamouring craiks, at close o'day, 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets frae your ivy bower, 
In some auld tree or eldritch tower. 
What time the Moon, wi' silent glower, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail through the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn! 

O rivers, forests, hiUs, and plains I 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year I 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear 

For him that's dead! 

Thou, Autinnn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of 

light! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 



And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For tln-o' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson! the man, — the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou cross'd that ixnkmown river, 

Life's dreary bound? 
Like thee, where shall I find another 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth.s 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility, how charming. 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 

But distress, with liorrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the vaUey, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the woodlai-k charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird! a prey the surest. 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.' 



5 Captain Henderson was a retired 
soldier, of agreeable manners and upright 
character, who mingled in the best society 
of Eflinburgh. In a letter to Dr. Moore, 
February, 1791, Burns speaks as follows : 
"The Elegy on Captain Heiulerson is a 
ti-ibute to "the memory of a man I loved 
much. Poets have in this the same ad- 
vantage as Roman Catliolics : they can 
V)e of service to their fricinds after thoy 
have passed the bourne where all other 
Ivindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whetlxer, after all, either the one or the 
other be of any real service to the dead, 



s, I fear, very problematical; but I am 
! tliey are higl ' -.•^- • --^- ^^--. ■>■- 

ing/" 



sure tliey are higlily gratifying to the liv- 



7 Bxirns one day received a letter from 
Mrs. Dunlop, of Avhich some of the senti- 
ments charmed him so much, that ho 
forthwith wrote these verses on sensibil- 



586 



BURNS. 



LESfCLUDEN ABBEY. 

AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS. 

Ye holy walls, that, still sublime, 
Resist the crumb] iug touch of time; 
IIow sti-ongly still your form displays 
The piety of ancient days ! 
As thro' your rmns hoar and gi'cy, — 
Ruins yet beauteous in decay,— 
The silvery moonbeams ti'embling fly; 
The forms of ages long gone by 
Crowd tliick on Fancy's wondering eye, 
And wake the soul to musings high. 
Even now, as lost in thought profound, 
I view the solemn scene around, 
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, 
The past returns, the present flies; 
Again the dome, in pristine pride, 
Lifts high its roof and arches wide, 
That, knit with curious tracery. 
Each gothic ornament display. 
The high-arch'd windows, painted fair. 
Show many a saint and martyr thei'e. 
As on their slender forms I gaze, 
Methinks they brighten to a blaze! 
"With noiseless step and taper bright. 
What are yon forms that meet my sight? 
Slowly they move, while every eye 
Is heavenward raised in ecstasy. 
'Tis the ftiir, spotless, vestal train, 
That seek in prayer the midnight fane. 
And, hark ! what more than mortal sound 
Of music breathes the pile around? 
'Tis the soft-chanted choral song, 
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong ; 
Till, thence return'd, they softly stray 
O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay ; 
Now on the rising gale swell high, 
And now in fainting murmurs die : 
The boatmen on Kith's gentle stream. 
That glistens in the pale moonbeam. 
Suspend their dashing oars, to hear 
The holy anthem, loud and clear; 
Each worldly thought awhile forbear. 
And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer. 
But, as I gaze, the vision fails, 
Like f]-o St- work touch'd by southern gales ; 
The altar sinks, the tapers fade. 
And all the splendid scene's decay'd ; 
In window fair the painted pane 
No longer glows with holy stain. 
But through the broken glass the gale 
Blows chilly from the misty vale; 



ity, and sent them to his •' dear and much 
honoured friend." 



Tlie bird of eve flits sullen by, 
Her home these aisles and arches high I 
The choral hymn, that erst so clear 
Broke softly sweet on .Fancy's ear. 
Is drown'd amid the moui-nful scream 
That breaks the magic of my dream! 
Roused by the sound, I start and see 
The ruin'd sad reality! 8 



TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE 

H0USE.9 
GUIDWTFE : 

I MIND it weel, in early date. 
When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn, 
Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
And tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow com 

A man I reckon'd was. 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing, and clearing, 

The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' clavers an' haivers 
Wearing the day awa^ 

Even then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, — 
That T, for puir auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading Avide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeding-heuk aside. 
An' spared the symbol dear: 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, buti blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang, 

In formless jumble, right and wrang, 



I 



Lincluden Abbey, the beautiful ru- 
ins of which prompted these beautiful 
lines, was founded in the time of King 
Malcolm the Fourth, on the banks of the 
river Cluden, not far from Dumfries. 

y This was Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, a 
lady of much taste and talent ; a painter 
and a poetess. Her sketches with the 
pencil are said to have been very beauti- 
ful ; anil her skill in verse is approved by 
publislied si>e(.'imcns. 

1 But, again, in the sense of ivithout. 
See page 57S, note 1. 



A VISION. 



587 



Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hairst I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She i-oused the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted xip my jingle, 
Her witching smile, her panky een. 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ! 
I firfed, inspix-^d, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I fearfed aye to speak. 

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' mcrrj' dance in winter days. 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The. saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' j'our mither; 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her : 
Ye'i'e Avae men, ye're nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marlfed plaid ye kindly epai'e 
By me should gratefully be ware; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Farewell then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' ; 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca' ! ^ 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower,^ 
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 

bower. 
And tells the midnight Moon her care; 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue North was streaming forth. 
Her lights wi' hissing, eerie din ; 
Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And by the moonbeam shook to see 
A stei-n and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His daring look had daunted me ; 
And on his bonnet graved was plain. 
The sacred posy — Licertie! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
Might roused the slumbering dead to 
But, O, it was a talc of woe, [hear; 

As ever met a Briton's earl 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; 
But what lie said it was nae play, — 
I winna venture't in my rhymes.* 



2 O, that he, the prevailing poet, could 
have seen the light breaking iu upon the 
dai'kness that did too long and too deeply 
overshadow his living lot! Some glori- 
ous glimpses of it his prophetic soul did 
see; — witness The Vision, or that some- 
what humble, but yet high strain, in which, 
bethinking him of tiie undefined aspira- 
tions of his boyish genius that had be- 
stirred itself in the darkness, as if the 
touch of an angel's hand were to awaken 
a sleeper in his cell, he said to himself, 
*'Ev'n then a wish," &c. Such hopes 
Avere in him, in his "bright and shining 
youth," surrounded as it w;i3 with toil 
and ti'ouble, that could not bend down 



the brow of Burns from its natural up- 
right inclination to the sky; and such 
hopes, let us doubt it not, were with him 
in his dark and faded prime, when life's 
lamp burned low indeed, and he was 
willing at last, early as it was, to shut his 
eyes on this dearly beloved but sorely 
distracting w^orld. — Wilson. 

3 The ruins of Lincluden Abbey near 
Dumfries. 

4 This splendid vision of Liberty Burns 
evoked among the ruins of old Lincluden. 
The scene is chiefly copied from Nature ; 
but the wall-flower and the ivy, the dis- 
tant roaring of the Nith and the fox howl- 
ing on the hill, seem rather to point to 
Sweetheart Abbey. Lincluden was a fa- 
vourite resort of the poet; and, indeed, 
a lovelier spot, or one more suitable for 
meditation, cannot well be imagined.— 
Cunningham. 



588 



BURIJrS. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE,5 
A BROTHER POET. 
AULD NEIBOR, 

I'M three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant friendly letter; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, sillj-, rhjTnin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary-widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye ha'e negleckit; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Eivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' 

Wi' jads or masons ; [drink, 

An' whyles, but aye owre late, I thiiik, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Common' me the Bardie clan; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' 
Nae cares to gie us joy orgrievin'; [livin*, 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then, hiltie-skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-flel', at wark, or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 



5 David Sillar, a native of Tarbolton, 
was some time a schoolmaster, and after- 
wards a magistrate, at Irvine, and had 
published a volume of poems. 



But, for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Though e'er sac puir, 
Na, even though limp in' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BAKD. 

ApHl 1, 1785. 
While briers an' woodbines budding 

green, 
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whidden seen, 

Inspire my Muse, 
This fi-eedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'. 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 

And there was muckle fun an' jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin* 

At sang about.'' 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best. 
That some kind husband had addi-est 

To some sweet wife : 
Itthirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the Ufe.8 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel 
What generous, manly bosoms feci : 
Thought I, " Can this be, Pope, or Steele, 
Or Beattie's wark? " 



7 The epistle to John Lapraik was 
produced exactly on the occasion de- 
scribed by the author. He says : " On 
Fasten-e'en we had a rocking." Rocking 
is a term derived from primitive times, 
wlien our country-women employed their 
spare houi's in spinning on the rock or 
distaflf. This simple instrument is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social 
inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rock- 
ing, or with the rock. As the connection 
the phrase had with the implement was 
forgotten when the rock gave way to the 
spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be 
used by both sexes on social occasions, 
and men talk of going with their rocks as 
well as Avomen. It was at one of these 
rockings, at oiu* house, when they had 
twelve or fifteen voung people with their 
rocks, that Lapraik's song beginning, 
"When I upon thy bosom lean," was 
sung, and we were informed who was the 
author. — Gilbert Bur^j s. 

8 The song which prompted this epis- 
tle is said to have been composed by La- 
praik in one of his days of despondency, 
when his wife refused* to be comforted. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPEAIK. 



589 



They fcild me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't; 
Then a' that kent him round declared 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam^e near't, 

It was sae fine : 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 

An' either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches ; 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 

The' I should pawnmypleugh andgraith. 

Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Though rude an' rough; 
Yet crooning to a body's sel', 

Does weel enough. 

I am na poet, in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

An' hae to learning nae pretence ; 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak' a sang?" 
But, by your leave, my learned foes, 

Ye're may-be wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest Nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools. 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 



Gie me a spai'k o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O, for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

Iflcanhitit! 
That would be lear enough for me. 

If I could get it ! 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends eneugh, 
Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if j'our catalogue be fu', 

I'se no insist; 
But gif ye Avant ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel'; 

As ill I like my fau'ts to tell; 

But friends, an' folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me; 
Though I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie a night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather. 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter, 

An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; 

Syne Ave'll sit down an' tak' our whitter. 

To cheer our heart; 
An', faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

There's naething like the honest nappy I 
Whare will ye e'er see men sae happy. 
Or women sonsie, saffc, and sappy, 

'Tween moi-n and morn. 
As them wha like to taste the drappy 

In glass or horn? 

I've seen me daez't upon a time, 
I scai'ce cou'd wink, or see a styme; 
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, 

Aught less is little; 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme. 

As gleg's a whittle ! 

Awa' j-e selfish war'ly race, 

Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 



590 



BURNS. 



E'en love and friendship, should give 
To catch-the-plack ! [place 

I dinna like to see your face, 
Nor hear you crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers I 

But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
Twa lines from you would gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO WILLIAJM SIMPSON," OCHIL- 
TREE. 

May, 1785. 

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie : 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think he hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Music ; 
Tho' in sic phrasln' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel', 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writei--chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's diy, musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nbiu-gh gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry!) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 



9 William Simpson was, in the days 
of Burns, schoohnastcr of the parish of 
Ochiltree, afterwards of New Cummock. 
He was a successful instructor of youth, 
and a poet of no mean order. Burns 
seems to have been partial to this class 
of men. — Cunninghajm. 



As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O, sad disease!) 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 
It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought it worth his while 
To set her name in measured style : 
She laj' like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland i-ings ; 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' missus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
But, Willie, set your lit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather-bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers sti-ode 

By Wallace' side. 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,i 

Or glorious died. 

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' Avoods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds. 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 
Their loves enjoy. 



1 Over shoes in blood. I quote from 
Carlyle : " Who ever uttered sharper say- 
ings than his, — words more memorable, 
now by their burning vehemence, now by 
their cool vigour and laconic pith? A 
single phrase depicts a whole subject, a 
whole scene. Our Scottish forefathers in 
the battle-fields struggled forward, he 



EPISTLE TO A YOUlfG FKIEN^D. 



591 



While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
Witli wailfu' cry ! 

E'en Winter bleak has charms to me, 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Darkening the day ! 

O Natui-e ! a' thy shows an' forms, 

To feeling, pensive hearts, hae charms ! 

Whether the Summer kindly Avarms 

Wi' Ufe an' light, 
Or Winter howls in gusty storms 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
TULby himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think lang : 
O, sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang! 

The war'ly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouthei% jundie, stretch, an' strive; 
Let me fail* Nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brith- 

er!'' 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Sow let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal I 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat brax- 
While terra flrma on her axis [ies ; ^ 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Egbert Bukxs. 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FELEND.^ 

31ai/, 1786. 
1 LAXG hae thought, my youthfu' Iriend, 
A something to have sent you, 



says, red-icat shod : giving, in this one 
word, a full visien of liorror and carnage, 
perhaps too frightfully accurate for Art." 

2 Braxics are sheei) dying of disease, 
and so falling to the herdsmen as their 
perquisites. 

3 This was Andrew Aiken, son of the 
poet's friend, Eobert Aiken, to whom The ' years 



Tho' it should seire nae other end 

Thau just a kind memento : 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and ti'ouble set your thought. 

E'en when your end's attained; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

TNTiere every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a'; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But, och ! mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure. 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Though poortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak' a neebor's part. 

Yet nae ha'e cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff-han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony; 
But still keep something to yourseP 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weei's ye can 

Frae critical dissection; 
But keek through every other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I wave the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 



To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 
Assiduous wait upon her; 



Cotter's Saturday Night was inscribed. 
Young Aiken rose to distinction in after- 



592 



BURNS. 



And gcathcr gear by every wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a ti'ain-attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip 

To haud the wretch. in order; 
But where jg feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause, — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear. 

And e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or, if she gie a random «ting. 

It may be little minded; 
But when on life Ave're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a canker, — 
A correspondence flx'd wi' Heaven 

Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting I [speed," 
In ploughman phrase, "God send you 

Still daily to grow wiser ! 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.* 

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the 
soul ! 
Sweetener of life, and solder of society! 
I owe thee much ! " —Blair. 



Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief 
Til at e'er attempted stealth or rief. 



4 Tlie person to whom this choice epis- 
tle was addressed was a merchant at 
Mauchline, and an early friend of the 
poet's. 



Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by Sun an' Moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair of shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, " The Man." 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin'? 

Some rhyme, a neibor's name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' 

cash; 
Some rhyme, to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din : 
For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But in requit 
Has blest me Avi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent; 
But still, the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries " Iloolie ! 
I rede you, honest man, tak' tent! 

Ye'U Shaw your folly. 

There's ither poets much your betters, 
Far seen in Gi-eek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debt- 

A' future ages ; [ors, 

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters 

Their unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 
Are whistling thrang, 



EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH. 



593 



An»"teach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
HoAV nevei'-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all iinkno^vn, 
I'll lay me with tli' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale? 

Just now we're living, sound and hale; 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care owre side ! 
And large, before enjoj-ment's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy -land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand 

That, wielded right, 
Mak's hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand, then, let us wield; 
For, ance that flve-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hostin', hirpliu', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 

gloamiu', 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin'. 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy of joys I 

O Life, how pleasant is thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! 
Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning. 

We frisk away, 
Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat; 
They di-ink the sweet and eat the fat, 
But 5 care or pain; 



5 WitJwut. See page 586, note 1. 



And, haply, eye the barren hut 
Witli high disdain. 

With steady aim some fortune chase; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey ; 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observ- 
To right or left eternal swer\'in', [in'; 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure and starvin', 

They aften groan. 

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining,— 
But ti'uce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'enlet her gang! 
Beneath what light she has remaining 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, [plore, 
And kneel, " Ye Powers ! " and warm im- 
" Though I should wander Terra o'er, 

In all her climes. 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

A rowth o' I'hjones. 

Gie di'ceping roasts to countra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour; 
And yill an' whiskey gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

A title, Dempster merits it; 
A garter gie to WilUe Pitt; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. ; 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'U sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be'twater-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerful face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Bchint my lug, or by my nose; 
I jouk beneath misforune's blows 

As wcel'slmay; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 



504 



BURNS. 



ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compared wi' you, — O fool I fool! fooll 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives a dyke ! 

Nae hare-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 
Nae ferly though ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 
The rattling squad : 

1 see you upward cast your eyes,— 

Ye ken the road. 

Whilst I— but I shall baud me there,— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where : 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quit my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak' a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK.c 

EUisland, Oct. 21, 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and can tie? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron 7 south! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald myself, by word o' mouth. 
He'd tak' my letter : 



6 This was the celebrated blind poet, 
whose encouragement induced Burns to 
stay in Scotland and court the Muses, in- 
stead of emigrating to the West Indies. 
He was, by all accounts, one of the sweet- 
est and loveliest of men. Dr. Johnson 
wrote of him in August, 1773, " I saw at 
breakfast Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, 
who does not remember to have seen 
light, and is read to by a poor scholar^ in 
Latin, Greek, and French. He was, orig- 
inally, a poor scholar himself. I looked 
on him with reverence." 

7 Mr. Heron was the author of a His- 
tory of Scotland, published in 1800. After 
suffering great privations, he sought shel- 
ter in London, and died there in i807. 



I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 
And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
And, tired of sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fler? 
I'm turn'd a ganger, — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 

Wha by Castalia's wimjilin' streamies 
Lovii), sioff. and lave your pretty limbics, 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose an' brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is : 
I need na vaunt. 

But I'll sued besoms, thraw saugh wood- 
Before they want. [ies, 

Lord help me through this warhl o' care • 
I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stock o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wilb. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Luckie : 
I wat she is a daintie chuckle, 

As e'er trod clay I 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

Robert Buens. 



SOKGS. 595 

s o isr G- S . 



WAE SONa. 

Air — The Song of Death. 

Scene.— A field of battle. Time of the day— Evening. The wounded and dying of 
the victorious army are supposed to join iu the song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, tlioii green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting Sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

. Go, frighten the coward and slave ! 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 
i^o terrors hast thou for the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant, — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero, — a glorious mark! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame! 

In the field of proud honour, — our swords in our hands. 

Our king and our country to save, — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, — 

! who would not die with the brave ? 



THE LAZY MIST. 

Tune — Eere^s a health to my true love. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill: 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year ! 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 

How long I have lived, — but how much lived in vain! 

How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 

What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ! 

What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! 

And, downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! 

This life's not worth having, with all it can give : 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



596 BUBN^S. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune — Bhannerach dhon na chri. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear- winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

0, spare the dear blossoms, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing, as ye iTsher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
And England, triumphant, display her proud rose : 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.^ 



YOUXa JESSIE. 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

Teue-heaeted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr; 
But by the sweet side of the Mth's winding river 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

0, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning. 
And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring. 
Enthroned in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 
Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'.^ 

1 These vei'ses were composed on a charming girl,— Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
who is now married to James Mackitterick Adair, physician. She is sister to my 
worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton, of Maixchline, and was born on the banks of the 
Ayr; but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Harvieston, in Clackman. 
shire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon.— Bdkns. 

2 Jessie Staig, the heroine of this song, was the daughter of Provost Staig, of 
Dumfries. She died in early life ; but her beauty and her gentleness caused her to 
be long remembered in her native valley. 



soi^GS. 597 



LAMENT. 

WEITTEN" WHEK THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 
Tune— The Banks of the Devon, 

O'ee the mist-shrouded cliffs of their lone mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of Winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave! 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail. 

Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore ; 

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, 
The pride of my bosom,^ my Mary's no more ! 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander. 
And smile at the Moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 
For the dewdrops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast : 
I haste with the storm to a far-distant shore ; 

Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



AFTON WATEE. 

Tune — The Yellotc-haired Laddie. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, — 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far-mark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills ! 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

3 Mary Campbell, so well known as the poet's " Highland Mary." 



598 BUKN'S. 

How i^leasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
"Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! 
How wanton thy waters her snawy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ! 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.* 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — Humours of Glen. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming Summers exalt the perfume; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys. 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.^ 

4 This charming song was comioosed in honour of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, the poet's 
■kind and accomplished pati'ouess. It is said that when Burns presented the song to 
lier, " she smiled at the images of beauty with which she was associated as she slum- 
bered on the banks of her native stream; " and that " she looked upon his stxains as 
a mark of respect, and felt them as a work of genius." Afton is a small stream in 
Ayr-shn-e, and one of the tributaries of the Mth. 

5 The hei'oine of this song was Mrs. Burns, who so charmed the poet by singing 
it with taste and feeling, that he declared it to be one of his luckiest lyrics. It is said 
that she sang with ease and simiDlicity ; that " science adorned Avithout injuring nat- 
ure; " and that her " wood-note wild" was almost unequalled. 



SOKGS. 



699 



BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS 
AT BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune — Lewis Gordon. 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 1 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour ! 
See approach pi'oud Edward's poAver, — 
Edward! chains and slaverie! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Who can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Traitor 1 coward I turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Sodger! hero! onwi'me! 

By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall, they shall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 

Forward I let us do, or die ! 



THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER. 

Air — The mill, mill, O ! 
When wild War's deadly blast was blawn , 

And gentle Peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 

And mony a widow mourning; 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the Avitching smile 

That caught my youtlxful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting-thorn. 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 



Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
Down by her mother's dwelling? 

And tum'd me round to hide the flood 
That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

Sweet as you hawthorn's blossom, 
O, happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain would be thy lodger; 
I've served my king and country lang, — 

Take pity on a sodger." 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 

And lovelier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't." 

She gazed,— she redden'd like a rose. 

Syne pale like ony lily; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

"Art thou my ain dear Willie? " 
" By Him who made yon Sun and sky, — 

By whom true love's regarded,— 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ! 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor : 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger; 
Remember he's his country's stay. 

In day and hour of danger. 



THE BONNIE BANKS OF AYR. 

( Composed when the Poet thought of leaving 
Scotland, and going to the West Indies.) 
Tune — Roslin Castle. 
The gloomy night is gathering fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast: 



600 



BUEKS. 



Yon murky cloud is foul with r.ain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattcr'd coveys meet secure, 
"While here I wander, pi*ess'd with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her placid azure sky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; 
I think xipon the stormy wave, 
"Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar; 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; 
Though death in every shape appear, 
The Avretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierced with many a 

wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and Avinding vales ! 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves : 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these,my love with those :— 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayrl <* 



A PRAYER FOR MARY. 

Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
Powers celestial, Avhose protection 
Ever guards the virtuous fair, 



G Burns had left Dr. Laurie's family, 
after a visit, which he expected to be his 
last, and on his way home he had to cross 
a wide stretch of solitary moor. His 
mind was strongly affected by parting for 
ever with a scene wJaere he had tasted so 
much elegant and social pleasure; and, 
depressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
prospects, the aspect of Nature harmon- 
ized with his feelings : it was a lowering 
and l)eavy evening in the end of Autumn. 
The wind was up, and whistled through 
the rushes and long spear-grass which 
bent before it. The clouds were driving 
across the sky, and cold pelting showers 
at intervals added discomfort of body to 
cheerlessness of mind. Under these cir- 
cumstances, and in this frame, Burns 
composed his poem. — Walker. 



"While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form, sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your o^ati, — 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit. 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O, protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ! 
To realms unknown wliile fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home.^ 



HIGHLAND SIARY. 

Tune — Katharine Ogie. 
Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, [ers. 

Green be your woods, and fair your flow- 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Maiy. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie : 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary, 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, O, fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early! — 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O, pale,' pale now those rosy lips 

I aft hae kiss'd so fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 



7 Supposed to have been written on 
the eve of the poet's intended departure 
for the West Indies. It will of course be 
understood that this and the three songs 
following all refer to the same person. 



SONGS. 



601 



And mouldering now in silent dust 
That heart that lo'ed me dearly, — 

But still within my bosom's core 
Shall live my Highland Mary is 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN.9 

Tune — Death of Captain Cook. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 
That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou usher'st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade 1 
Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear'-st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 
Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 
To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 
Those records dear of transports past, — 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 
Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening 

green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 



8 Marv Campbell, the inspirer of this 
most tender and affecting song, died sud- 
denly of a malignant fever, at Greenock, 
in itSG. It is said, on good authority, 
that, "before the Mast farewell,' com- 
memorated in the song of Highland Mary, 
was taken, the lovers plighted mutual 
faith, and, exchanging Bibles, stood, Avith 
a running stream between, and, lifting 
up its waters in their hands, vowed love 
while the woods of Montgomery grew and 
its waters ran." 

9 The young woman whose loveliness 
and too early death are here sung with so 
much beauty and pathos, was from Camp- 
bell-Town, in Ai-gyle-shire, and lived 
some time as nurseiy-maid in the family 
of Gavin Hamilton, tlie poet's friend and 
patron. The song appears to have been 
composed at the time indicated in the first 
stanza. It is said that, on the anniversa- 
ry of Mary's death, the poet was so agi- 
tated, that he retii-ed from his lamih*, 
then living at EUisland, and wandered on 
the banks of the Nith and about the farm- 
yard nearly the whole night, and at length 
threw liimself on the side of a corn-stack, 
and gave utterance to his feeUngs in this 
divine strain. 



Twined amorous round the raptured 

scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon the glowing West 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but th' impression deeper makes. 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 



EVAN BANKS. 

Tune — Savourna Delish. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires; 
The Sun from India's shore retii-cs : 
To Evan Banks, with temperate ray. 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

O, banks to me for ever dear! 
O, stream whose murmurs still I hear! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest. 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who, trembling, heard my parting sigh. 
And long pursued me with her eye ; — . 

Does she, with heart unchanged as mine. 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 

Te lofty banks that Evan bound. 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below; 

What secret charm to memory brings 
All that on Evan's border springs? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream! she views thee haste to 
X:iyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost? 
Return, ye moments of delight; 
With richer treasures bless my sight! 



602 



BUEiq-S. 



Swift from this xleserfc let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear sti'eam which flows to 
Clyde.io 



THE BANIiS OF DOON. 

Ye flowery hanks o' honnie Doon, 

How can ye hloora sae fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae fu' o' care? 

Thou'll break my heart, thou honnie bird, 

That sings upon the hough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my lieart, thou honnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by honnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love ; 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae off its thorny tree : 
And my fause luvcr staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 

Tune — John Anderson, my jo. 
JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your honnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw : 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



10 In this exquisite song the poet im- 
agines himself in India; and his allusion 
to Mary in Heaven is exceedingly pa- 
thetic. 



THE BBAES C BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — Braes o' Ballochmyle. 
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The floAvers decay 'd on Catrine lea, 
Nae laverock sang on hillock green. 
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Through faded groves Maria sang, 
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild- wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' BaUochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers. 
Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 
Shall birdie charm or floweret sm.ile; 
Fareweel the honnie banks of Ayr 1 
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet BaUochmyle!* 



HONEST POVERTY. 

Tune — For a* that and a' that. 
Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea-stamp. 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden grey, and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 

A man's a man for a' that ! [wine. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that, 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that : 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A king can mak' a belted knight, 
A marquess, duke, and a' that; 



1 Miss Maria Whitefoord, eldest daugh- 
ter of Sir John Wliitetbord, was the hero- 
ine of this sweet song; wliichwaswi'itten 
as a farewell to the family residence. 



SONGS. 



603 



But an honest man's aboon his might,-— 
Guitl faith, he maunna fa' thatl 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Their dignities, and a' that. 

The pith o' sense and pride o' worth 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the Earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune — Robic donna Gorach. 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 
Where Cummius ance had high com- 
mand : 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 
That winding stream I love so dear? 
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 
For ever, ever keep me here? 

How lovely, Mth, thy fruitful vales. 
Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 
Where lambkins wanton through the 

broom ! 
Though wandering now must be my doom, 
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume. 
Among the friends of early days ! 



LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune — Logan Water. 
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride; 
And years sinsyue hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, for frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, [ers : 
The bees hum round the breathing flow- 



Blithe Morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And Evening's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within your milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the tlirush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O, wae upon you, men o' State, 
That brethi'en rouse to deadly hate ! 
As y6 make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



I DO CONT^ESS THOU AET SAE 
FAIR. 

Tune — I do confess thou art sae fair. 
1 DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve. 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak thy heart could 

muve. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy I 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide ; 
Though thoi^ may gaily bloom awhile, 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



BESS ANT) HER SPINNING-WnEEL. 

Tune— The sweet lass that lo'es me. 
O, LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel. 
And leeze me on my rock and reel; 
Frae tap to tac that deeds me bien, 
And haps me liel and Avarm at e'en! 
I'll sit me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer Sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal, — 
O, leeze me on my spinning-wheel J 



G04 



BUR]S"S. 



On ilka hand the huruies trot, 
And meet hclow my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The Sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O, whii wad leave this humble state 
For a' the pride of a' the great? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune— The Country Lass. 
In Simmer, when the hay was mawn. 
And corn waved green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 
And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie, in the milking shiel. 
Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what will; " 
Outspak' a dame in wrinkled eild, 
" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

It's ye hae wooers monie ane. 
And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 
A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
Fu' is liis barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen, 
It's plenty beets the lover's fire." 

" For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 
He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e. 
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear; 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gic 
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 



" O, thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; 
The canniest gate, the sti-ife is sair : 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 
tV hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare. 
An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

" O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 
And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o'leesome luve, 
The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor, — Robie and I ; 
Light is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve bring peace and joy,— 
What mair hae queens upon a throne? " 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMLYE. 
Tune — Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff. 
'TWAS even, —the de-wy fields were green; 
On every blade the pearls did hang; 
The zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, 
And bore its fragrant sweets alang; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 
AU Nature listening secm'd the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd. 
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 
A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 
Her air like Nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper 'd, passing by. 
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay, 
Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But Woman, Nature's darling child I 
There all her charms she does compile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O ! had she been a country maid. 
And I the happy country swain. 
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 
That ever rose on Scotland's plain; 
Through wcarj- Winter's wind and rain, 
With joy, with rapture I would toil; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle! 



SONGS. 



605 



Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 
Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the puie, 
To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 
With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.2 



A ROSEBUD BY IMY EARLY WALK. 

Tune — The Rosebud. 
A ROSEBUD.s by my early walk 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dew^y head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest; 
The dew sat chilly on h.er breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning, 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair! 
On trembling string, or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze u])on the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray, 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



2 The heroine of this song was Miss 
Wilhelmina Alexander, whose brother, 
Claud Alexander, Esq., had lately be- 
come the OAvner of Ballochmyle. One 
summer evening, soon after her brother 
had taken, possession of the place, the 
young lady, who was distinguished by 
evei'y grace of person and mind, was 
walking along the braes, when she en- 
countered a plain-looking man, in rustic 
attire, who appeared to be musing, with 
his shoulder leaning against one of the 
trees. As the evening was far advanced, 
and the encounter very sudden, she was 
startled, but soon recovered herself, and 
passed on. Some months afterwards, 
this song was enclosed to her in a letter 
from the poet. It is said that at first she 
paid no attention to the matter; but after- 
wards showed a becoming sense of the 
honour thus conferred upon her. 

3 See •' Beauteous rosebud," &c., p. 580. 



CHLORIS. 

Mr Cliloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks hoAV fair; 

The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The laverock shuns the palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' ; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale. 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love, — 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
BLAW. 

TunQ-^ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's iiiglit 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde 

The lasses busk them braw ; 
But when their best they hae put on, 

My Jeannie dings them a' : 



606 



BURIs^S. 



In hamely weeds she far exceeds 

The fairest o' the town; 
Baith sage and gay confess it sae, 

Though dress'd in russet gown. 

The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, 

Mair harmless canna he : 
She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't), 

Except her love for me : 
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, 

Is like her shining e'en ; 
In shayje and air nane can campare 

Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. 

O, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring liame the laden bees; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part, 

That night she gaed awa? 
The PoAvers aboon can only ken, 

To Avhom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! * 



AE FOND KISS. 

Tune — Rory DoWs Port. 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae farewell, and then, for ever! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; 
Nothing could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly. 



4 The Jean, who is here so charmingly 
celebrated, was Jean Armour, till she be- 
came Mrs. Burns. The poet archly in- 
forms us that the song was written "'dur- 
ing the honey-moon." The grace of sim- 
ple rural beauty and pure innocence has 
never been more felicitously expressed. 



Never met, — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou fii-st and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
reace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure I 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae farewell, alas! for ever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! <» 



FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 

O Nakcy ! wilt thou go with me, 
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
The lowly cot and russet gown? 
No longer drest in silken sheen. 
No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene. 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away. 
Wilt thou not cast, a wish behind ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 
Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
O, can that soft and gentle mien 
Extremes of hardship learn to bear; 
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy ! canst thou love so true. 
Through perils keen with 'me to go. 
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, 
To share with him the pang of woe? 
Say, should disease or pain befall. 
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

And Avhen at last thy love shall die. 
Wilt thou receive his parting breath? 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 
And cheer with smiles the bed of death? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay 
Where thou wert fairest of the fair? c 



5 These exquisitely affecting stanzas 
contain the essence of a thousand love- 
tales.— Sir Walter Scott. 

G This song was written by Bishop 
Percy, the accomplished editor of Reliqucs 
of Ancient English Poctrij. It is given 
partly for its own sake, but mainly be- 
cause Burns set it down as "perhaps the 
most beautiful ballad in the English 
language." 



GLOSSARY. 



.607 



OF SCOT'a?ISH: "words A-NT^ i>hr,a.ses. 



A\ 


AU. [way. 


Ben, 


Into the spence, or par- 


Abeigh, 


Back, aside, out of the 


Besom, 


A broom. [lour. 


Abread, 


Abroad, in sight. 


Beuk, 


A book. 


Abreed, 


In breadth. 


Beulcs, the Devil 


's 


Aboon, 


Above, up. 


pictured, 


Cards. 


Acquent^ 


Acquainted. 


Bickering, 


Hurrying. 


Ae, 


One. 


Bield, or biel'. 


A shelter. 


Aff, 


Off. 


Bien, 


Well, plentifully. 


Aff-loof, 


Off-hand, extempore. 


Big, 


To build. 


Aft, aften. 


Oft, often. 


Biggin\ 


Building. 


A-gley, 


Wrong, awry. 


Bill, 


A bull. 


Aiblins, 


Perhaps. 


Billie, 


A young fellow, a broth- 


Ails, 


Oak, 




er, a companion. 


Ain, 


Own. 


Birk, 


A birch-tree, [fellow. 


Air, 


Early. 


Birkie, 


A conceited, forward 


Aim, 


Iron. 


Bizz, 


A bustle, to bustle. 


Airt, 


Point of the compass. 


Blate, 


Bashful. 


Aith, 


Oath. 


Blastie, 


A shrivelled dwarf. 


Alang, 


Along. 


Blastit, 


Blasted, 


Amaist, 


Almost. 


Blaud, 


A ballad. 


An\ 


And. 


Blaw, 


To blow, to boast 


Ance, 


Once. 


BUeze, 


A blaze, a flame. 


Ane, 


One. 


Blellum, 


A chattering fellow. 


Anither, 


Another. 


Blether, 


To talk nonsense. 


Athort, 


Athwart. 


Blethers, 


Idle talk, nonsense. 


Aught, 


Eight. 


Blink, 


A little while,a moment. 


Auld, 


Old. 


Blink, 


To look kindly, to shine 


Auld-farrant, 


Sagacious, sensible. 




by fits. < [ingly. 


Ava, 


At all, of all. 


BUnHn\ 


Smirking, looking lov- 


Awa, 


Away, begone. 


Bluid, 


Blood. 


Ayont, 


Beyond. 


Boddle, 


A small copper coin. 


JSa', 


Ball. 


Bodies, 


People, persons. 


Dade, 


Deserved, expected. 


Bogle, 


A ghost, a hobgoblin. 


Baggie, 


The belly. 


Bonnie, 


Handsome, lovely. 


Bairn, 


A child. [children. 


Boord, 


A board. 


Bairn-tiine, 


A brood, a family of 


Boortries, 


Elder-bushes. 


Baith, 


Both. 


Bore, 


A hole in a wall. 


Ballat, 


A ballad. 


Bouse, 


To drink. 


Ban, 


To curse, to swear. 


Brae, 


A hill-side, a slope. 


Bane, 


Bone. 


Braik, 


A kind of harrow. 


Barmy, 


Yeasty. 


Braindg't, 


Plunged forwai'd. 


Baivk, 


A strip of unploughed 


Brats, 


Rags. 




land in a corn-iield. 


Brattle, 


A short ]-ace, a running. 


Baws'nt, 


White-striped. 


Bravo, 


Fine, handsome, brave. 


Bear, 


Barley. 


Breckan, 


Fern. 


Beastie, 


Diminutive of beast. 


Breef, 


A mighty spell,a charm. 


Beet, 


To kindle, to add fuel to. 


Breeks, 


Breeches. 


Beld, 


Bald. 


Brent, 


Bright, clear. 


Belyve, 


By-and-by, presently. 


Brisket, 


The breast. 



608 



BURKS. 



Brither, 


Brother. 


Coo/, 


A dunce, a ninny. 


Brock, 


A badger. 


Coast, 


Cast off. 


Brogue, 


A trick. 


Cootie, 


A kitchen dish. 


Broose, 


A weddiug-race. 


Core, 


Party, corps. 


Brugh, 


A borough. 


Corn't, 


Fed Avith oats. 


Brunstane, 


Brimstone. 


Cotter, 


A dweller in a cottage. 


Buirdly, 


Strong-built. 


Cour, 


Cower, let down. 


Bum, 


To hum. 


Cozie, 


Snug. 


Bummin\ 


Humming. 


Crabbit, 


Crabbed, fretful. 


Burdies, 


Diminutive of birds. 


Crack, 


A talk, a conversation. 


Bure, 


Bore, carried. 


Crack, 


To converse, to boast. 


Burn, 


A brook, a rivulet. 


Craik, 


The coi-n-i-ail, a bird. 


Busk, 


To make fine, to dress. 


Crambo-jingle, 


Rhymes. 


But, 


A kitchen. 


Cranreuch, 


Hoar-fi-ost. 


Byke, 


A beehive. 


Crap, 


Crop. [of a cock. 


Byre, 


A cow-house. 


Craiv, 


A rook. Also the crow 


Ca\ 


To caU. 


Creel, 


A basket; be in a creel. 


Cadger, 


A carrier. 


Creeshie, 


Greasy. [be crazed. 


Caird, 


A tinker. 


Crood, 


To coo, as a dove. 


Cairn, 


A loose heap of stones. 


Croon, 


A hoUow moan. 


Callan, 


A boy. 


Crooning, 


Humming. 


Caller, 


Sound, refreshing. 


Crouse, 


Cheerful, courageous. 


Cannie, 


Gentle, mild.dexterous. 


Crowlin', 


Crawling. 


Canfie, 


Cheerful, merry. 


Cuddle, 


To clasp, to caress. 


Cantraip, 


A spell, a charm. 


Cumm^ck, 


A staff with a crooked 


Capstane, 


A cope-stout!, the last 




head. 




stone of a building. 


Cmple, 


The crupper, the stern. 


Carl-lieinp, 


The male hemp-stalk. 


Cushat, 


The dove, or wood pig- 


Carlin, 


A stout old woman. 


Cutty, 


Short, [eon. 


Cartes, 


Cards. 


naez't, 


Dazed, stunned, stupe- 


Cauld, 


Cold. 


Baffin', 


Sport, merriment, [fied. 


Caup, 


A cup. 


Daft, 


Merry,, giddy, foolish. 


Chanter, 


A drone of a bagpipe. 




mad. 


Chapman, 


A pedlar. 


Daimen, 


Rare, now and then. 


Chiel, 


A young fellow. 


Damned, 


Doomed. 


Chow, 


To chew. 


Daur, 


To dare. 


Claes, 


Clothes. 


Daurg, or daurk 


, A day's work. 


Clarkit, 


Wrote, -written. 


Dawtit, 


Fondled, petted. 


Clash, 


Idle tales, such as are 


Dead, 


Death. 




in vogue at the time. 


Deil, 


Devil. 


Claught, 


Laid hold of, seized. 


Descrive, 


To describe,to perceive. 


Claver, 


Clover. 


Ding, 


To worst, to excel. 


Clavers, 


Idle stories. 


Dinna, 


Do not. 


Claw, 


To scratch. 


Dirl, 


To shake, to ti-emble. 


deed, 


To clothe. 


Dizzens, 


Dozens, that is, task. 


Cleekit, 


Caught, snatched. 


Donsie, 


Mischievous. [ment. 


Clud, 


A cloud. 


Dool, 


Sorrow; sing dool, la- 


Coble, 


A fishing-boat. 


Douce, 


Grave, sober, wise. 


Coft, 


Bought. [ure. 


Dowff, 


Pithless, fesble. 


Cog, 


A wooden dishormeas- 


Dowie, 


Grieved,spiritless, half- 


Coila, or Coil, 


Kyle, a district in Ayr- 




asleep. 




shire. 


Dow, 


Can, to be able. 


Collie, 


A country cur. [ingly. 


Drappy, 


Diminutive of drop. 


Convoy, 


To attend, to escort lov- 


Dreeping, 


Dropping, oozing. 


Cood, 


The cud. 


Dreigh, 


Tedious, long about it. 





GLOSSAKY. 


609 


Droddum, 


The breech, the stern. 


Flingin'-tree, 


A flail. 


Droop-rumple t. 


Stooping at the rump. 


Fliskit, 


Fretted. 


Drouth, 


Thirst. 


FlunJde, 


A liveried servant. 


DrucJcen, 


Drunken. 


Foggage, 


After-grass. 


Dni7nly, 


Muddy. 


Foord, 


A ford. 


Duh, 


A pool, or small pond. 


Forbears, 


Foi'efathers. 


Duddie, 


Eagged. 


Forhye, 


Besides. 


Duds, 


Rags, clothes. [ram. 


Forfoughten, 


Fatigued. 


Dusht, 


Pushed or butted by a 


Forgather, 


To meet, to encounter. 


E'e, 


The eye. 


Forjeskit, 


Jaded, used up. 


E'eiiy 


Evening. 


Forrit, 


Forward. 


Een, 


The eyes ; evening. 


Fou, 


Drank. 


Eerie, 


Frightful, sprighted, 


Fow, 


A measure, a bushel. 




haunted, ghosted. 


Frae, 


From. 


Eikl, 


Old age. 


Fu\ 


Full. [ed, well off. 


Elbuck, 


The elbow. [vish. 


Fu'-hant, 


Full-handed, fore-hand- 


Eldricli, 


Ghastly, frightful, el- 


FyJce, 


A fuss ; to make a fuss. 


Enetigh, 


Euough. 


Gab, 


The mouth. 


Ettle, 


Effort, attempt. 


Gaed, 


Went. 


Eydent, 


Diligent. 


Gaen, 


Gone. 


Fa', 


A fall, a lot; to fall. 


Gang, 


To go, to walk. 


Faiket, 


Excused, let off. 


Gape, 


To gasp. [force. 


Fain, 


Fond, glad. 


Gar, 


To make, to cause, to 


Fairin\ 


A reward, a present 


Gart, 


Made, caused. 




brought from a fair. 


Gate, 


A road, way, manner. 


Fand, 


Found. [to worry. 


Gaun, 


Going. 


Fash, 


To care, to be worried, 


Gash, 


Sagacious, talkative. 


Fasht, 


Troubled, vexed, [day. 


Gat, 


Got. 


Fasten-e'en, 


Kame for Shrove Tues- 


Ganger, 


An exciseman. 


Fa'that, 


To try, to attempt. 


Gaiocie, 


Large, jolly. 


FatVrills, 


Trimmings, 


Gear, 


Goods, property. 


FaugUt, 


A fight. 


Ghaist, 


A ghost. 


Fause, 


False. 


Gie, 


To give. 


Faut, 


A fault. 


Gif, 


If. 


Fawsont, 


Decent, seemly. 


Giftie, 


Diminutive of gift. 


Fear, 


To frighten, to scare. 


Girn, 


To grin. 


Fecht, 


To light. 


Gizz, 


The face, a periwig. 


Fechtin', 


Fighting. 


Glaikit, 


Inattentive, foolish. 


Fell, 


Sharp, biting, pungent. 


Glaizie, 


Smooth .glossy (Shining. 


Fells, 


Hills, mountains. 


Gleg, 


Keen, prompt, ready. 


Ferlie, or ferly, 


A wonder; to wonder; 


Glint, 


To peep. 




used in scorn. 


Gloaming, 


The twilight. 


Fidge, 


To fidget. [light. 


Glower, 


To look, to stare. 


Fidgefu'' fain, 


To be in a fidget of dc. 


Gowan, 


The daisy. 


Fidgin'-fain, 


Tickled with pleasure. 


Gowany, 


Full of daisies. 


Fiel, 


Smooth, soft. 


Gowd, 


Gold. 


Fient, 


A fiend, a devjl. 


Goioden, 


Golden. 


Fie?', 


A friend. 


Gowdspink, 


The goldfinch. 


Fissle, 


To bustle, to fuss, 


Graith, 


Tackle, furniture. 


Fit, 


The foot. 


Grane, 


A groan ; to groan. 


Flainen, 


Flannel, 


Grannie, 


Grandmother. 


Flang, 


Threw violently. 


Grat, 


Wept, shed tears. 


Fleesh, 


A fleece. 


Gree, 


To agree; burethegree, 


Fleg, 


A kick. 




bore the palm, that is, 


Flichterin', 


Fluttering, 




the victory. 



OIU 


BURNS. 


Grozet, 


The gooseberry. 


HowJc, 


Grushie, 


Thriving, growing. 


Howlcit, 


Guid, or gude, 


Good, 


Howlet, 


Guidwife, 


Mistress, madam. 


Hoijte, 


Ha\ 


Hall. [the hall. 


Hunders, 


Ha' Bible, 


The large Bible kept in 


Hurcheon, 


Hae, 


To have, to take, to ac- 


Hurdles, 




cept, [grey locks. 


Icker, 


Haffets, 


Temples; lyart haffets, 


Ilk, or ilka, 


Hafflins, 


Nearly, half, partly. 


Ingine, 


Hain'd, 


Saved, spared. 


Ingle, 


Hairst, 


Harvest. 


Ingle-cheek, 


Saith, 


A petty oath. 


Ingle-low, 


Haivers, 


Idle talk, gossip. 


Fse, 


Hale, 


Whole, healthy, safe. 


Ither, 


Halesome, 


Wholesome. [clad. 


Jad, 


Half-sarJcit, 


With half a shirt, half- 


Jaiik, 


Hallan, 


A turf seat outside a 


Jauntie, 




cottage door. 


Jink, 


Hahj, 


Holy. 




Hame, 


Home. 


Jink an' diddle, 


Han', or haun, 


The hand. 




Hap, 


Mantle, outer garment. 


Jinker, 


Hap, 


To wrap, to cover. 


Jinkin\ 


Ham, 


Very coarse linen. 


Jirt, 


Hashes, 


Fellows who know not 


Jo, 




how to dress or act 


Jouk, 




with propriety. 




Hastit, 


Hastened. 


Jundie, 


Hand, 


To hold. 


Kail, 


Haugh, 


A valley, low rich land. 




Hauld, 


Hold, home. 


Kain, 


Haurl, 


To drag, to haul. 


Kebbuck, 


Havins, 


Good manners. 


Keek, 


Hawkie, 


A Avhite-faced cow. 




Heapit, 


Heaped. 


Kelpies, 


Heather, 


Heath. 




Hech! 


0! strange! 




Heft, 


A handle. 


Ken, 


Heugh, 


A pit, an abyss. 


Kep, 


Heulc, 


A hook. 


Ket, 


Hiltie-sMltie, 


Helter-skelter. 


Kimmer, 


Hingiri', 


Hanging. 


Kirk, 


Hirplin, 


Hobbling. 


Kirn, 


Histie, 


Dry, barren. 


Kirsen, 


Hizzie, 


A hussy, a young girl. 


Kist, 


Hoast, 


A cough. [der. 


Kittle, 


Hog.shouther, 


To jostle with the shoul- 


Knaggie, 


Hoolie! 


Slowly! not too fast! 


Knappin\ 


Hoord, 


A hoard ; to hoard. 


Knowe, 


Hostin\ 


Coughing. 


Knurlin, 


Hotch'd, 


Hitched, turned hither 


Kye, 




and thither. 


Kyle Stewart, 


Howe, 


A dell, a hollow. 


Laddie, 


Howe-hacldt, 


Sunk in the back. 


Lade, 



To dig. 

Dug up, disinterred. 

The owl. 

To amble crazily. 

Hundreds. 

A hedgehog. [per. 

Loins, hips, the crup- 

A head of grain. 

Each, every. 

Genius, ingenuity. 

Fire, fireplace. 

Chimney-corner. 

Fire-light. 

I shall, I will. 

Other, each other. 

A jade, a giddy young 

To dally, to trifle, [girl. 

A journey. 

To dodge, to turn a cor- 
ner ; a quick turn. 

The motion of a fid- 
dler's elbow. 

That turns quickly. 

Dodging. 

A jerk; to jerk. 

A lover, a sweetheart. 

To stoop, to bow the 
head, to skulk. 

To push with the elbow. 

Colewoi-t, young cab- 
bage. 

Fowls, &c., paid as rent. 

Cheese. 

A peep, a glance; to 
peep, to pry into. 

Mischievous spirits, 
said to haunt fords 
and ferries by night. 

To know, to understand. 

To catch. 

A fleece of wool. 

A young girl, a gossip. 

Church. [supper, 

A churn, the harvest 

To christen. 

A shop-counter, a chest- 
To tickle; ticklish, ski t- 

Shai-p-boned. [tish. 

Breaking, cracking. 

A knoll, a round hillock. 

Knotty, dwarfish. 

Cows. [shire. 

A disti'ict in Aberdeen- 
Diminutive of lad. 

A load. 



GLOSSARY. 


611 


Low. 


Mavis, 


The thrush. 


Loth, unwilling. 


Mawn, 


Mown. 


Bashful, sheepish. 


Meere, 


A mare. 


Lowland. 


MeiJcle, 


Much, large. 


Land, estate. 


Melancholious, 


Mournful, [grist. 


Alone. 


Melder, 


Grain sent to the mill, 


Lonely. 


Men', 


To mend, amend, re- 


Long. 




form, [ners. 


Leapt, did leap. 


Mense, 


Decorum, good man- 


Others, the rest. 


Messin, 


A small dog. 


The lark. 


Minnie, 


Mother, dam. 


A lea, a field. 


Miric, 


Dark. 


Loyal, faithful. 


Mither, 


Mother. 


Learning, lore. 


Mony, or monie. 


Many. 


To leave. 


Morn, 


To-morrow. 


Live-long. 


Mottie, 


Full of motes. 


Gladsome, happy. 


Moudiewort, 


A mole. 


I love ; a phrase of en- 


Mou\ 


The mouth. 


dearment. 


Muclcle, 


Much, great, big. 


A look ; to look. 


Muir, 


A moor. 


Lea, field. 


Musie, 


Diminutive of muse. 


Beaten, whipped. 


Muslin-kail, 


Thin poor broth. 


The sky, the firmament. 


Mutchkin, 


An English pint. 


A mistress, a harlot. 


Muve, 


To move. 


Tripped. 


Na, or nae, 


No, nor, not any. 


Tripping along. 


Naig, 


A nag, a horse. 


A waterfall. [flower. 


Nane, 


None. 


Flax; lint i' hell, flax in 


Nappy, 


Ale. 


The linnet. 


Negleckit, 


Neglected. 


Trusted. 


Neehor, or neibor, A neighbour. 


Place of milking. 


Neuk, 


A nook. 


Palm of the hand. 


New-ca'd, 


Newly calved. 


The palms. 


Niest, 


Next. 


A pool, a slough. 


Nieve, 


The fist, the hand. 


To love. 


Nievefu? 


A handful. 


A flame. 


Nine, or nines, 


Exactly, to a nicety. 


Blazing, flaming. 


Nowte, 


Black cattle. 


To leap, to jump. 


o\ 


Of. 


Loosed, let loose. 


Onie, or ony, 


Any. 


The ear, a handle. 


Or, 


Ere, before. 


Smoking. 


0% 


Of it. 


To love; a love. 


Ourie, 


Drooping, shivering. 


A lover. 


Ower, or owre. 


Over, too. 


Grey. 


Pack, 


Familiar, intimate. 


More. 


Painch, 


The paunch, the stom- 


A farm. 


Paitrick, 


A partridge. [ach. 


More. 


Parritch, 


Oatmeal pudding. 


Almost. 


Pat, 


Put, made. 


Mostly. 


Pattle, 


A plough-spade. 


To make. 


Paughfy, 


Proud, haughty. 


Among. 


Paukie, 


Cunning, 


Parti-coloured. 


PayH, 


Paid, did beat. 


Tlie hare. 


PecJian, 


The crop, the stomach. 


Must. 


Pint, 


Two English quarts. 


Must not. 


Pit, 


To put. 



C12 


BURNS. 




PlacTc, 


A small copper coin. 


Bozet, 


Rosin. 


Platie, 


Diminutive of plate. 


Sae, 


So. 


Plenished, 


Stocked, supplied. 


Saft, 


Soft. [serve. 


Pleugh, 


A plough. [or debt. 


Sair, 


Sore, hard, grievous ; to 


Poind, 


To seize goods for rent 


Sark, 


A shirt, a chemise. 


Poortitn, 


Poverty. 


Saugh, 


The willow. 


Pouchie, 


A purse. 


Saul, 


Soul. 


Poussie, 


A hare, a cat. 


Saumont, 


A salmon. 


Poio, 


The head, the skull. 


Saut, 


Salt. 


Pownie, 


A pony. 


Sax, 


Six. 


Prent, 


Printing; to print. 


Scaud, 


To scald. 


Prief^ 


Proof. 


Scaur, 


Fearful, scared. 


Pu\ 


To pull. 


Scawl, 


A scold, a scolding wife. 


Puir, 


Poor. 


Scanner, 


To loathe. 


Pundy 


Pound. 


Scraichin', 


Screaming. 


Quaik, 


The cry of a duck. 


Screed, 


A rent, a rending. 


Quat, 


Quitted, did quit. 


Scrievin', 


Swiftly, merrily. 


Quean, 


A lass, a wench. 


Scrimpit, 


Scanty. 


liagweed. 


The herb-ragwort. 


Scrimply, 


Scantly, scarcely. 


Pair, 


A roar; to roar. 


Shavie, 


An ill turn, a trick. 


Pair't, 


To be rent or torn. 


Shaw, 


A small wood, a grove. 


Raize, 


To excite, to inflame. 


Shaw, 


To show. 


Pam-stam, 


Hare-brained, thought- 


Sheen, 


Bright, shining. 


Panting, 


Joyous, jovial. [less. 


Sheugh, 


A ditch, a sluice. 


Pape, 


A rope. 


Shiel, 


A shed, a cot. 


Paplock, 


Kude, coarse. 


Shag, 


A push, a shock. 


Rash-hush, 


A rush-bush. 


Shool, 


A shovel. 


Ration, 


A rat. 


Shoon, 


Shoes. 


Raw, 


A row. 


Shored, 


Offered. 


Rax, 


To stretch. 


Sic, 


Such. 


Ream, 


Cream, foam, froth. 


Sidelins, 


Sidelong. 


Ream, 


To froth, to foam. 


Siller, 


Silver.' 


Rede, 


Advice; to advise. 


Silly, 


Weak, fragile. 


Rede, 


Informed, warned. 


Simmer, 


Summer. 


Red-wat-shod, 


Over shoes in blood. 


Sin', 


Since. 


Reek, 


Smoke ; to smoke, [ty- 


Sinsyne, 


Since then. 


ReeJcif, 


Steaming, smokj', smut- 


Skeigh, 


Spirited, mettlesome. 


Reestif, 


Restive, uneasy. 


Skellum, 


A rattling, reckless fel- 


Remead, 


Remedy. 




low, [to trip, to skip. 


Requit, 


A requital. 


Skelp, 


To strike, to slap ; also 


Restricked, 


Restricted. 


Skelpit, 


Rode hard, galloped. 


Rief, 


Theft, robbery. 


Skinklin, 


Thin, gauzy, small. 


Rig, 


A rick, a stook. 


Skirl, 


To shriek, to scream. 


Pdg, 


A ridge. 


Sklent, 


To go aslant, to be ob- 


Rigwoodie, 


Gallows-worthy. 




lique, to deceive. 


Pin, 


To run, to melt. 


Sklented, 


Acted obliquely. 


Ripp, 


A handful of unthresh- 


Sklentin', 


Slanting, aslant. 


Rive, 


To rival. [ed corn. 


Skreigh, 


To scream. [fence. 


Rock, or rake. 


A distaff. 


Slap, 


A gate, a breach in a 


Roose, 


To praise, to commend. 


Slee, 


Sly. 


Routhie, 


Plentiful, weU-stocked. 


Sleekit, 


Sleek, sly. 


Rotre, 


To roll. 


Sleest, 


Slyest. 


Rowte, 


To low. 


Sliddery, 


Slippery. 


Roicthe, 


A plenty. 


Slypet, 


Turned and fell gently. 


Rowtin', 


liOwing. 


Sma% 


Small. 





GLOSSARY. 


613 


Smeddum, 


A powder. 


Stimpart, 


The eighth of a Win- 


SmeeJc, 


Smoke; to smoke. 




chester bushel. 


Smiddie, 


A smithy. 


Stirk, 


A steer, or heifer. 


Smoor, 


To smother. 


StooUd, 


Grain made into shooks. 


Smoutie, 


Smutty. 


Stoor, 


Sounding hollow, loud. 


Smytrie, 


A parcel, a flock. 




and hoarse. 


Snash, 


Abuse. 


Stop, 


To manage the stops of 


Snaw, 


Snow. 




a musical instrument ; 


Snaojoy, 


Snowy. 




that is, play upon it. 


Sued, 


To cut. 


Stoure, 


A smudge, a cloud of 


Snell, 


Bitter, biting. 


Strang, 


Strong. [lust. 


SneesMn, 


Snuff ; sneeshin - mill. 


Straught, 


Straight. 




snuff-box. 


Striddle, 


To straddle. 


Snick, 


A door-latch. 


Stroan, 


To spout. [dily. 


Snick-drawing, 


Unlatching, stealing in- 


Strunt, 


To strut, to walk stur- 




to a house or place. 


Studdie, 


An anvil. 


Snool, 


To sneak, to crouch. 


Sturt, 


To harass, to molest. 


Snoov't, 


Went smoothly and 


Styme, 


A glimmer, a jot. 


Snore, 


To snort. [steadily. 


Sud, 


Should. 


Snowk, 


To scent, to snuff. 


Sugh, or sough, 


The rushing noise of 


Sodger, 


A soldier. 




wind or water. 


Sonsie, 


Good-looking, jolly. 


Sumph, 


A blockhead. 


Souple, 


Supple, nimble. 


Sune, 


Soon. 


Solder, 


A shoemaker. 


Swank, 


Stately, jolly. 


Sowther, 


To solder. [ings. 


Swap, 


An exchange. 


Spates, 


Swollen streams, swell- 


Swat, 


Did sweat. 


Spavie, 


Tlic spavin. 


Swats, 


Drink, good ale. 


Spean, 


To wear. 


Swirl, 


A curve, a curl. 


Speel, 


To climb, to mount. 


Swith! 


Getaway! 


Spence, 


A cutta^e-parlour. 


Swoor, 


Swore. 


Spier, 


To ask, to inquire. 


Syne, 


Since, ago, then. 


Sprattle, 


To scramble. 


Ta'en, 


Taken. 


Spunk, 


Fire, mettle, a spai-k. 


Tak\ , 


To take. 


Spunkie, 


Fiery ; the Devil ; a jack- 


Tap to tae. 


Top to toe. 




o'-lantern. 


Tauld, 


Told. [handled. 


Squatter, 


To flutter in water, as 


Tawie, 


Peaceable, easy to be 




a wild duck. [ing. 


Tawted, 


Matted, hair or wool. 


Squattle, 


To squat byway of hid- 


Teen, 


Grief, sorrow. 


Stacker, 


To stagger. 


Tent, 


Care,, heed. 


Staggie, 


Diminutive of stag. 


Tentie, 


Heedful, cautious. 


Stalwart, 


Stately, strong. 


Tentless, 


Careless, heedless. 


Stane, 


A stone. [rass. 


Thack, 


Thatch ; thacJc an' rape. 


Stank, 


Standing water, a mo- 




clothing and necessa- 


Stan?, or stan't. 


To stand. 




ries. 


Stark, 


Stout. 


Thae, 


These, or those. 


Starns, 


Stars. 


Theekit, 


Thatched. 


Stato, 


Stole. [excess. 


Thegither, 


Together. 


StecMn', 


Cramming, eating to 


Thir, 


These. 


Steeks, 


Stitches. 


Thirl, 


To thrill. 


Steer, 


To vex, to molest. 


Thole, 


To bear, to endure. 


Steeve, 


Firm, strong, jolly. 


Thowe, 


A thaw; to thaw. 


Stens, 


Leaps, bounds. 


Thowless, 


Lazy, listless. 


Stents, 


Dues, of any kind. 


Thrang, 


A throng; to be busy 


Steyesf, 


Steepest. 




or crowded with busi- 


Stibble, 


Stubble. 




ness. 



G14 


BURNS. 




TJirave, 


Twenty-four sheaves. 


Wat, 


To know, to think. 


Thraw, 


To twist. 


Water-brose, 


Pottage or broth made 


Thretteen, 


Thirteen. 




of meal and water 


Thrum, 


To sound, [ing noise. 




only. 


Tlmd, 


To make a loud thump- 


Wattle, 


A twig, a switch. 


Timmer, 


Timber. 


WauUe, 


To reel. 


Tine, 


To lose. 


Waukit, 


Hardened; tough. 


Tinkler, 


A tinker. 


Waukri/e, 


Wakeful. 


Tippennie, 


Twopenny ale. 


WaurH, 


To worst, to surpass. 


Tint, 


Lost. 


Wean, 


A child. 


Tip, 


Aram. 


Weary.widdle, 


Toilsome contest of life. 


TirUn\ 


Unroofing. 


Wee, 


Little; a little, a bit. 


Tither, 


The other. 


Weel, 


Well. 


Tocher, 


A dower, a marriage- 


Weet, 


Wet, wetness. 




portion ; tocher clear. 


Wee-tliings, 


Little-ones. 




without pay. 


We'se, 


We shall, we will. 


ToddUn% 


Tottering, walking un- 


Wha, whan, 


Who, whom. 




steadily ; toddlin hur- 


JVhaizle, 


To wheeze. 




nie, trotting stream- 


Whalpit, 


Whelped. 




let. 


Whan, 


When. 


Toun, 


The farm, the hamlet. 


Whare, 


Where. 


Tow, 


A rope. 


Whid, 


The motion of a hare in 


Towmond, 


A twelvemonth. 




running, when not 


Towzie, 


Rough, shaggy. 




frightened. 


Toy, 


An ancient head-dress. 


Whidden, 


Running as a hare. 


Toyte, 


To totter. 


Whins, 


Furze. 


Trashtrie, 


Trash, rubbish. 


Whitter, 


A bumper. 


Trouth, ovtroivtf 


., Truth. 


Whittle, 


A knife. 


Twa, 


Two. 


Whunstane, 


Whinstone. 


Twal, 


Twelve. 


Whyles, 


Sometimes. 


Twalpennie, 


Twelve pence ; equal to 


Wf, 


With. . 




one penny English. 


Wimplin', 


Meandering, winding. 


Tyke, 


A dog. [too. 


Win, 


Won. 


Unco, 


Strange, uncouth, very, 


Winna, 


Will not. 


Uncos, 


News, marvels. 


Win\ 


Wind. 


Unfauld, 


To unfold. 


Win's, 


Winds. 


Upo\ 


Upon. 


Winnock-hunker 


Window-seat. [ning. 


Usqudbae, 


Whiskey. 


Winsome, 


Hearty, pleasant, win- 


Vauntie, 


Proud, overjoyed. 


Wintle, 


To stagger, to reel. 


Vera, 


Very. 


Wonner, 


A wonder; used in con- 


Wa', wa's. 


Wall, walls. 




tempt. 


Wad, 


Would. 


Woodie, 


A withe, a halter. 


Wadna, 


Would not. 


Wow! 


An exclamation of won- 


Wae, 


Woe, sorry. 




der or pleasure. 


Wale, 


To choose, to select. 


Wrang, 


Wrong. 


Walie, 


Large, jolly, lusty. 


Wyliecoat, 


A flannel vest. 


Wame, 


The belly. 


Yell, 


Barren, milkless. 


Wanclmncie, 


Unlucky. 


Yerkit, 


Jerked, lashed. 


War'ly, 


AYorldly. 


Yestreen, 


Yesternight. 


WarJc, 


Work. 


Yill, 


Ale. 


Ware, 


To spend; worn. 


Yird, 


Earth, ground. 


Warl, 


The world. 


YoJcin', 


A bout, a turn. 


Warlock, 


A wizard. 


' Yont, 


Beyond. 


Warse, worst, 


Worse, Avorst. 


Yowe, 


An ewe. 


Wastrie, 


Waste, prodigality. 







JAMES BEATTIE 

SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



James Beattie was born at Laurencekirk, in Kincardineshire, the 25th of 
October, 1735. His father, who was a small farmer and shopkeeper, died in 
1742, James being then seven years old. David, the eldest of the six children, 
undertook for the education of James. The parish school to which he was sent 
was' then tauuht by one Milne, whom his pupil describes as a good grammarian 
and Latinist, but destitute of taste and other qualifications for a teacher. Milne 
pi-cferred Ovid to Virgil; while his pupil, even at that age, showed a better 
taste by preferring the severer poet. It is said that, in the interval of school 
honrs, Paradise Lost and Thomson's Seasons were eagerly devoured by the boy. 

In 1749, at the age of fourteen, Beattie entered Marischal College, Aberdeen ; 
and such was his proficiency, that he took the first of the allowances which 
were given to such students as were unable to pay their own way. He was 
much given to general reading, especially in poetry ; and spent a good deal of 
his leisure in the study and practice of music : he also applied himself closely 
to all the branches taught, except mathematics, for which he had no taste or 
aptitude, and took the regular degree in 1753. 

Being now obliged to look out for liimself, he applied for the situation of 
parish schoolmaster at Fordoun, which happened to be vacant, and was elected 
in August, 1753. The salary M-as small, and the place in other respects not 
very eligible. Near the village, however, resided Lord Gardenstown, who 
caught Beattie, with pencil and paper in hand, in a romantic glen near his 
house ; struck up a conversation with him ; and, finding him to be a poet, gave 
him the invocation to Venus in the opening of Lucretius to translate : this he 
did on the spot, and so well withal, as to remove the doubts which that gentle- 
man entertained as to whether his poetry was really his own. The result was, 
that his lordship became a friend and patron of the young poet, as Lord Mon- 
boddo also did, the two vying with each other in his behalf. While there, he 
wrote several poetical pieces, and sent them, with his initials, to the Scots Mag- 
azine, where they were published. These, however, brought him nothing but 
fame. 

After teaching some time, he returned to Aberdeen to engage in preparing 
for the ministry ; but it was not long before he gave up his purpose of under- 
taking that office ; and in 1758, a vacancy occurring in the Aberdeen Grammar 
School, he was elected, and entered upon his duties, which allowed him leisure 
for the cultivation of his poetical gift. Two years later, through the aid of his 
friends, he was appointed Professor of Philosophy in Marischal College. He 
was young and scantily qualified for such a post ; but he set manfully to work, 
read and Avrote hard, and in a few years became able to front such men as 
Gregory, Campbell, and Eeid, with whom he was associated. In 1761, he 
published a volume of poems. The book appeared at the same time in Edin- 
burgh and London, and was hailed with general applause ; the poetry being 
held supei'ior to any since Gray's. But he himself soon grew to think quite 
otherwise of it, and indeed was taken w ith a fastidious loathing of the poems. 

In 1767, Beattie was married to Mary, the daughter of Dr. Dunn, then Rec- 
tor of the Aberdeen Grammar School. She was an amiable and gifted Avomau, 

615 



CIO BEATTIE. 

but, unfortunately, inherited from her mother the germs of insanity, which are 
said to have broke out in capricious Avaywardness, some time before the evil 
culminated in actual madness. The great era of Beattie's life was in 1770, 
when he published his Essay on Truth, which soon spread his fame far and 
near. The first edition Avas bought up so eagerly, that a second was issued the 
next year ; and in less than four years five large editions were sold. It -■ -as 
also translated into scA'eral foreign languages, and attracted the notice of m. y 
eminent persons in various parts of the Continent. The essay was intended as 
a refutation of Hume's sceptical and atheistical philosophy, and was written 
with great ardour, and in a rather florid and taking style, well adapted to catch 
a loud and rapid popularity, but not a solid and enduring one. — The next 
year, Beattie visited London, and began a personal acquaintance with men of 
the highest eminence, such as Lords Mansfield and Lyttleton, Dr. Johnson, 
Burke, and others. He was also honoured with the degree of Doctor of Laws 
by the University of Oxford; and in 1773, he was admitted to an interview 
with the King, who received him very graciously, and bestowed on him a pen- 
sion of £200 a year. 

The Essay on Truth is scarcely heard of in our time ; nor does it deserve to 
be, for it is altogether lacking in the calmness of thought and austerity of style 
which should rightly mark a philosophical treatise. I read it many years ago, 
but have never cared to read it again. The production of Beattie that I am 
next to speak of is one that I am never weary of reading. — After a while he 
became so disgusted with his juvenile poems, that he tried his utmost to run 
them out of print, and induce a public oblivion of them. As a natural conse- 
quence of this, he seems to have groAvn more chary in his courtship of the 
Muses. Nevertheless he was not so unconscious or so distrustful of his poeti- 
cal gift as to relinquish his early and favourite pursuit. A few months after 
the publication of the essay, the first book of The Minstrel was given to the 
world, but without the author's name. The professional critics, not knowing 
whose workmanship it was, were very severe in condemnation of it, but the 
public chose, in this case, to judge for themselves, and so they fell in love 
with the beautiful poem. The result was, that it ran through four editions, 
each later one being revised and improved by the author. In ,1774, he pub- 
lished the second book ; which, as the authorship was now known, was loudly 
praised by the critics, as well as by the general reader. It was his purpose to 
add a third book; but this he never did. 

In 1776, Beattie set forth a new edition of his Essay on Truth, adding withal 
two other essays, one on Poetry and Music, and one on Laughter and Ludicrous 
Composition. This was followed, in 1783, by a volume of Dissertations on Mem- 
ory and Imagination, Dreaming, &c. ; also, in 1786, by a little treatise on the 
Christian Evidences, which he himself preferred to all his writings for its " close- 
ness of matter and style; " also, in 1790-93, by two volumes on the Elements 
of Moral Science, an abridgment of his professorial lectures. Long before this 
time, his wife had to be separated from him on account of her malady. He 
had two sons, one named James Hay, from his friend the Earl of Errol ; the 
other named Montague, from the celebrated Mrs. Montague, who was one of 
his London friends. The history of both sons is sad enough. James Hay, 
who gave high literary promise, and was still more distinguished for his amia- 
ble disposition, was appointed to succeed his father in the chair, but died in 
1790 at the age of twenty-two. The father suffered dreadfully from this blow. 
The death of Montague, also a youth of much promise, in 1796, by a rapid 
fever, totally prostrated the poor man. In his extreme anguish, he Avas some- 
times driven to seek relief in the cup, and Av^as so far put from himself, that 
sometimes he Avent about the house asking Avhere his son Avas, and AA'hether he 
had a son or not. He AAathdrcAV from all society, lost all relish of his former 
delights, AA^as seized, in 1799, Avith a paralytic affection, and languished on till 
the 18th of August, 1803, when the gifted', amiable, and most afflicted " Min- 
strel " breathed his last. 



JAMES BEATTIE 



THE MINSTREL; OR. 

THE PROGRESS OE GENIUS.* 



BOOK FIEST. 



1 Ah ! who can tell liow hard it is to climb 

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ? 
Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime 
Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
And waged with Fortune an eternal war, — 
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown. 
And Poverty's unconquerable bar ; — 
In life's low vale remote has pined alone, 
Then di'opp'd into the grave, unpitied and unknown ? 

2 And yet the languor of inglorious days 
Not equally oppressive is to all ; 

Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise. 
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
There are wlio, deaf to mad Ambition's call. 
Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame ; 
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall 
Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim 
Had he whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. 

3 The rolls of fame I will not now explore ; 
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, 
How forth tlie Minstrel fared in days of yore. 
Eight glad of heart, though homely in array ; 
His waving locks and beard all hoary gray ; 
"While from his bending shoulder, decent, hung 
His harp, the sole companion of his way. 
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung ; 

And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 

* The design was to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, horn in a rude age, 
from the first dawning of ftmcy and reason, till tliat period atw^hich he may be sup- 
posed capable of appearing in the ^vorld as a Minstrel, that is, an itinerant poet 
and musician; — a (character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was 
not only respectable, but sacred.— The Author. 

617 



618 BEATTIE. 

4 Fret not thyself, tliou glittering child of pride, 
That a poor villager inspires my strain : 
AVith thee let Pageantry and Power abide : 
The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign ; 
AYhere through wild groves at eve the lonely swain 
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: 
Q'liey hate the sensual and scorn the vain, 

The parasite their influence never warms, 
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. 

5 Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, 
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. 
Eise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn. 
While warbling larks on russet pinions float: 

Or seek at noon the w^oodland scene remote, 
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill. 
0, let them ne'er, with artificial note. 
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill. 
But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! 

6 Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; 
Nor was perfection made for man below ; 

Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd ; 
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. 
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow ; 
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise ; 
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow ; 
Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies. 
And Freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. 

7 Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse 
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
Th' iniperial banquet and the rich attire. 
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined ? 
No ; let thy heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire, 
To fancy, freedom, harmony resign'd ; 
Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. 

8 Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul 
In eacli fine sense so exquisitely keen. 
On the dull couch of Luxury to loll. 

Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen ; 
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, 
Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, 



THE MIKSTEEL. 619 

(The mansion tlien no more of joy serene,) 
Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide. 
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride ? 

9 0, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ? 
The warbling woodland, tlie resounding shore. 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds. 
And all that echoes to the song of even. 
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 

0, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ? 

10 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, 
And love and gentleness and joy impart. 

But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
For, ah ! it poisons like a scorpion's dart ; 
Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, 
The stern resolve, unmoved by pity's smart, 
The troublous day, and long distressful dream. — 
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed theme. 

11 There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree ; 
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, 
Sicilian groves, or vales of A ready : 

But he, I ween, was of the north countree; 
A nation famed for song and beauty's charms ; 
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; 
Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 

12 The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made 
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; 
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd : 
An honest heart was almost all his stock ; 
His drink the living water from the rock : 
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
Their kindly fleece to baffle Winter's shock ; 
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent. 

Did guide and guard their wanderings, whereso'er they went. 

13 From labour, health, from health, contentment, springs ; 
Contentment opes the source of every joy. 

He envied not, he never thought of king-^s ; 



620 BEATTIE. 

Nor from those appetites sustained annoy 
That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy; 
Xor Fate his calm and liumhle hopes beguiled ; 
He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy. 
For on his tows the blameless Phoebe smiled. 
And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. 

14 'No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, 

!N"or blasted were their wedded days with strife; 
Each season look'd delightful as it pass'd. 
To the fond husband and the faithful wife. 
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life 
They never roam'd : secure beneath the storm 
Which in Ambition's lofty hand is rife. 
Where j)eace and love are canker'd by the worm 
Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 

15 The wight whose tale these artless lines unfold 
Was all the offspring of this humble pair : 
His birth no oracle or seer foretold ; 

No prodigy appeared in earth or air, 
Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth ; 
The parent's transport, and the parent's care ; 
The gossip's prayer for wealth and wit and worth ; 
And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. 

16 And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy : 
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye ; 
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, 
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy : 
Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy; 
And now his look was most demurely sad ; 
And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. 

The neighbours sta*'ed and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad : 
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. 

17 But why should I his childish feats display ? 
Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled; 
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, 
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head. 
Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream 
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led. 
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, 

Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. 



THE MIXSTREL. 621 

18 Til' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, 
To him nor A'anity nor joy could bring. 

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed 
To work the woe of any liying thing. 
By trap or net, by arrow or by sling : 
These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield; 
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, 
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field. 
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. 

19 Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; 
And sees, on high, amidst tli' encircling groves, 

- From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine : 
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? 
Ah ! no ; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

20 And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, 
AVhen o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn. 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray. 
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 

Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding faAvn, 
And villager abroad at early toil. 
But, lo ! the Sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean smile ! 

21 And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb. 
When all in mist the world below was lost : 
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, 

And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd 
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 

22 In truth he Avas a strange and wayward wight, 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene : 
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight ; 
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern Sun diffused his dazzling sheen : 
Even sad vicissitude amused his soul ; 



622 BEATTIE. 

And if a sigh would sometimes intervene. 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. 

23 " ye wild groves ! 0, where is now your hlooni ? " 
(The Muse interprets thus his tender" thought,) 

•^ Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, 
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought? 
Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought 
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake ? 
Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? 
For now the storm howls mournful through the brake. 
And the dead foliage flies in many a shapless flake. 

24 " Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool. 
And meads, with life and mirth and beauty crown'd ? 
Ah ! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish pool 
Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd : 

, Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound ; 
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray ; 
And, hark! the river, bursting every mound, 
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away. 

25 " Yet such the destiny of all on Earth ! 
So flourishes and fades majestic Man : 

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, - 
And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan : 
0, smile, ye heavens serene ! ye mildews wan, 
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, 
Nor lessen of his life the little span! 
Borne on the swift though silent wings of Time, 
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. 

26 " And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn : 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, 
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return ? 
Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed ? 

Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn. 
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed. 
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 

27 " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust. 



THE MII^STREL. 623 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live ? 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
No ! Heaven's immortal Spring shall yet arrive, 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign." 

28 This truth sublime his simple sire had taught : 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew : 
No subtile nor superfluous lore he sought, 
Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue. 

" Let man's own sphere," said he, " confine his view ; 

Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." 
- And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew 

Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right. 
By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might. 

29 "And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, 
never, never turn away thine ear ! 

Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below. 
Ah ! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear ! 
To others do (the law is not severe) 
What to thyself thou wishest to be done : 
Forgive thy foes ; and love thy parents dear, 
And friends, and native land ; nor those alone : 
All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own." 

30 See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 

For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
And cool and fresh and fragrant is the sky : 
And, lo ! in the dark East, expanded high. 
The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun ! 
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh. 
How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 
'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run. 

31 Yet couldst thou learn that thus it fares with age, 
When pleasure, wealth, or power the bosom warm ; 
This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage. 
And disappointment of her sting disarm. 

But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm ? 
Perish the lore that deadens young desire ! 
Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm. 
Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire : 
Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. 



624 BEATTIE. 

32 When tlie long-sounding cnrfew from afar 
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
Young Edwin, hghted by the evening star, 
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the Yale. 
There would he dream of graves, and corses pale, 
And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng. 
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, 
Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, 

Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. 

33 Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dyed, 
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep. 

To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, 
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
A vision brought to his entranced sight : 
And, first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright. 
With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. 

34 Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
And forth a host of little Avarriors march. 
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. 
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. 
And green their helms, and green their silk attire; 

. And here and there, right venerably old, 

The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire. 
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. 

35 With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; 
The little warriors doff the targe and spear. 
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance : 
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
To right, to left, they thread the flying maze ; 
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance 
Rapid along : with many-colour'd rays 

Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. 

36 The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day. 
Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill, 
Fell chanticleer ; who oft hath reft away 

My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! 
0, to thy cursed scream, discordant still, 
Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear : 



THE MINSTKEL. 625 

Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, 
lusult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, 
And ever in tliy dreams the ruthless fox appear! 

37 Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune tliy line: 
Eevoke the spoil : thine Edwin frets not so. 
For how should he at wicked chance repine, 
Who feels from every change amusement ilow ? 
Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, 
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, 
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow. 
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, 

A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. 

38 But who the melodies of morn can tell? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepf old's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
Li the lonely valley ; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's ]ay of love. 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

39 The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 

Crown'd witli her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling ploughman stalks a-field; and, hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; 
Slow" tolls tlie village clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

40 Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 
0, for the voice and fire of seraphim. 

To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew. 
From Pyrrho's maze,^ and Epicurus' sty ; 
And held high converse with the godlike few. 
Who to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye. 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. 

1 PyiTho, a native of Elis in Peloponnesus, was the founder of the Sceptical Phi- 
losophy, -vvhich took from him the name of Pvrrhonism. The system is here called 
a maze, because its method was to intricate and sophisticate all oxu' knowledge into 
doubtfulness. 



626 BEATTIE. 

41 Hence ! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, 
Sophists ! of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane ! 
Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, 
Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane. 
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain ! 
Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime 

First gave you form ! Hence ! lest the Muse should deign 
(Though loth, on theme so mean to waste a rhyme) 
With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. 

42 But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, 
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth ! 
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay. 
Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth. 
0, let your spirit still my bosom soothe. 

Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide; 
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth. 
For well I know, wherever ye reside. 
There harmony and peace and innocence abide. 

43 Ah me ! neglected on the lonesome plain, 
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, 
Save when against the Winter's drenching rain. 
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. 
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar. 

Her legend when the beldame 'gan impart. 
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er. 
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart ; 
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art. 

44 Various and strange was the long-winded tale ; 
And halls and knights and feats of arms display'd ; 
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, 
And sing enamour'd of the Nut-brown Maid ; ^ 
The moonlight revel of the fairy glade ; 

Or hags that suckle an infernal brood. 
And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,** 
'Midst fiends and spectres quench the Moon in blood. 
Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood. 

45 But when to horror his amazement rose, 

A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, 
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, 

•2 The Nut-Brown Maid is the title of a famous old love-ballad given in Percy's 
Rdiques of Ancient Poetry. 
3 Referring to the doings of the Weird Sisters in Macbethy iv. 1. 



THE MINSTREL. 627 

The orphan Inibes, and guardian uncle fierce.* 
cruel! will no pang of pity pierce 
That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone ? 
For sure, if aught of yirtue last, or verse, 
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan 
Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone. 

46 Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, 
The babes, now famish'd, lay them down to die : 
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, 
Folded in one another's arms they lie ; 

Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry : 
" For from the town the man returns no more." 
- But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, 

This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore. 
When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy 
store. 

47 A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy 
Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, — 
"But wh}^ should gold man's feeble mind decoy, 
And innocence thus die by doom severe ? " 

Edwin ! while thy heart is yet sincere, 
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel : 
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; 
But let us hope ; to doubt is to rebel : 
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. 

48 Nor be thy generous indignation check'd. 
Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; 
From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect. 
This soften and refine the soul for Heaven. 

But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven 
To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego : 
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven. 
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, 
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. 

49 Shall he whose birth, maturity, and age 
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, 
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage. 
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay. 

If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray. 
If but a momentary shower descend ? 

4 Alluding to the choice old ballad of The Children in the Wood; also given in Per- 
cy's Beliques. 



628 BEATTIE. 

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, 
Which bade the series of events extend 
Wide through unniimber'd worlds, and ages without end ? 

50 One part, one little part, we dimly scan 
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; 
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 

If but that little part incongruous seem. 
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem : 
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise : 
0, then, renounce that impious self-esteem 
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies: 
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. 

51 Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years : 
For Nature gave him strength and tire, to soar 
On Fancy's Aving above this vale of tears ; 
Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore 
Through microscope of metaphysic lore ; 

And much they grope for Truth, but never hit : 
For why their powers,*^ inadequate before. 
This idle art makes more and more unfit ; 
Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. 

52 Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth : 
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device 

Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social heurth ; 
Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice 
To purchase chat or laughter, at the price 
Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed. 
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. 
Ah ! had they been of court or city breed. 
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. 

53 Oft, when the winter storm had ceased to rave, 
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view 
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave 
High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue ; 
Where, 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new. 
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, 
More wildly great than ever pencil drew, 

5 For why is here equivalent to because or inasmuch as. The usage is frequent in 
the old writers, and occurs repeatedlj^ both in the Psalter and in Shakespeare, hut is 
seldom met with in later writers. It is appropriate here, because the aiithor aimed 
avowedly to give something of an antique Ilavour to his style. So in The Two Gentle- 
men of Verona, iii. 1. 

"If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; 
For why the fools are mad if left alone." 



THE MINSTREL. 629 

Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. 

54 Thence musing onward to the sounding shore 
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. 
Listening, wdth pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array. 
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day. 
Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, 
Along the trembling wilderness to stray, 

"What time the lightning's fierce career began, 
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. 

55 Responsive to the lively pipe, when all 

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, 
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall. 
From the rude gambol far remote reclined. 
Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind : 
Ah ! then all jollity seem'd noise and folly. 
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined ; 
Ah ! what is mirth but turbulence unholy. 
When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy ? 

56 Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? 
Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! 

Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt 
Of solitude and melancholy born ? 
He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn: 
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; 
Mope o'er the schoohnan's peevish page; or mourn, 
And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; 
Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. 

57 For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; 
Song was his favourite and first pursuit : 
The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand. 
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute. 
His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute : 
Of elegance as yet he took no care ; 

For this of time and culture is the fruit; 
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare : 
As in some future verse I purpose to declare. 

58 Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new. 
Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky. 
By chance or search, was offer'd to his view, 
He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. 



630 BEATTIE. 

Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 
From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, 
Eoused liim, still keen to listen and to pry : 
At last, though long by penury controll'd 
And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. 

59 Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, 
For many a long month lost in snow profound, 
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, 
And in their northern caA'es the storms are bound ; 
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, 
Torrents are hurl'd ; green hills emerge ; and, lo ! 
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd ; * 
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go ; 

And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. 

60 Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while ; 
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim: 
But on this verse if Montagn should smile, 
New strains ere long shall animate thy frame : 
And her applause to me is more than fame ; 
For still with truth accords her taste refined. 
At lucre or renown let others aim, 

I only wish to please the gentle mind, 
Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind. 



BOOK SECOND. 



1 Of chance or change, 0, let not man complain, 
Else shall he never, never cease to wail ; 

For, from th' imperial dome to where the swain 
Eears the lone cottage in the silent dale, 
All feel th' assault of Fortune's fickle gale ; 
Art, empire. Earth itself, to change are doomed : 
Earthquakes have raised to Heaven the humble vale, 
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd ; 
And where th' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd. 

2 But sure to foreign climes we need not range, 
Nor search the ancient records of our race. 
To learn the dire effects of time and change. 
Which in ourselves, alas ! we daily trace. 
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face, 

6 Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the 
Sun enters Cancer, the fields, which a wx'ck before were covered with snow, appear 
»n a sudden full of grass and flowers. — SCHEFFEK'S History of Lapland. 



THE MINSTKEL. 631 

Or hoary hair, I never will repine : 
But spare, Time, wliate'er of mental grace, 
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, 
Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine. 

3 So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command. 
Shall here without reluctance change my lay, 
And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand ; 
Now when I leave that flowery path, for aye. 
Of childhood, where I sported many a day. 
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along ; 
Where every face was innocent and gay. 
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue. 

Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song. 

4 " Perish the lore that deadens young desire," 
Is the soft ten our of my song no more : 
Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire 
To bliss which mortals never knew before. 

On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, 
Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy: 
But now and then the shades of life explore ; 
Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy. 
And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy. 

5 Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows : 
The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, 
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; 
But soon it withers in the chilling hour. 
Mark yonder oaks ! Superior to the power 
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, 
And from the stormy promontory tower. 
And toss their giant arms amid the skies. 

While each assailing blast increase of strengtn supplies. 

6 And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice 
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime ; 
And walks of wider circuit were his choice, 

And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime. 
One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme. 
It was his chance to wander far abroad. 
And o'er a lonely eminence to climb. 
Which heretofore his foot had never trod; 
A vale appear'd below, a deep retired abode. 

7 Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene ; 
For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, 



632 BEATTIE. 

Here scorcli'd with lightning, there with ivy green, 
Fenced from the North and East this savage dell : 
Southward a mountain rose Avith easy swell, 
Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made ; 
And toward the western Sun a streamlet fell, 
Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd 
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. 

8 Along this narrow valley you might see 

The w^ld deer sporting on the meadow ground. 
And, here and there, a solitary tree. 
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine erown'd : 
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound 
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; 
And from the summit of that craggy mound 
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry. 
Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky. 

9 One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam. 
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head. 
And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, 
Eomantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : 

He minded not the Sun's last trembling gleam, 
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ; 
When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole : 

10 " Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast. 
And woo the weary to profound repose ! 

Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest. 
And whisper comfort to the man of woes ? 
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
Solitude ! the man Avho thee foregoes. 
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings. 
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs. 

11 " Vain man ! is grandeur given to gay attire ? 
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid : 

To friends, attendants, armies bought with hire ? 
It is thy weakness that requires their aid: 
To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid ? 
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : 
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? 
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm ! 
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform ! 



THE MIN^STEEL. 633 

12 " True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 
Virtue lias raised above the things below; 
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd, 
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow." 
This strain from ^midst the rocks was heard to flow 
In solemn sounds. ISTow beam'd the evening star ; 
And, from embattled clouds emerging slow, 
Cynthia came riding on her silver car ; 

And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar. 

13 Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew. 
While Edwin, rapt in wonder, listening stood : 
" Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu, 

- Scorn'd by the wise, and hated by the good ! 

Ye only can engage the servile brood 

Of Levity and Lust, who all their days. 

Ashamed of truth and liberty, have woo'd 

jind hugg'd the chain that, glittering on their gaze. 
Seems to outshine the pomp of Heaven's empyreal blaze. 

14 " Like them, abandon'd to Ambition's sway, 
I sought for glory in the paths of guile ; 

And fawn'd and smiled, to plunder and betray, 
Myself betray'd and plunder'd all the while ; 
So gnaw'd the viper the corroding file ; 
But now with pangs of keen remorse I rue 
Those years of trouble and debasement vile. 
Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue ? 
Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view ! 

15 " The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, 
And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast, 
Henceforth no earthly hope with Heaven shall share 
This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. 
And if for me no treasure be amass'd. 

And if no future age shall hear my name, 
I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, 
And with more leisure feed this pious flame. 
Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. 

16 " The end and the reward of toil is rest: 
Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 

Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd. 
Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease ? 
Ah ! what avails the lore of Eome and Greece, 
The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 



634 BEATTIE. 

The dnst of Opliir, or the Tyrian fleece, 
All that art, fortune, enteriorise can bring, 
If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride the bosom wring ? 

17 " Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 

With trophies, rhymes, and 'scutcheons of renown. 
In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome. 
Where night and desolation ever frown. 
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, 
Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave, 
With here and there a yiolet bestrewn, 
Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave ; 
And many an evening Sun shine sweetly on my grave. 

18 " And thither let the village swain repair ; 
And, light of heart, the village maiden gay. 
To deck with flowers her half -dish evell'd hair, 
And celebrate the merry morn of May : 
There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day 
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe ; 
And when mild Evening comes in mantle gray, 
Let not the blooming band make haste to go ; 

No ghost, nor spell, my long and last abode shall know. 

19 " For though I fly to 'scape from Fortune's rage. 
And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, 
Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage. 

Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn : 
For virtue lost, and ruin'd man I mourn. 
man ! creation's pride. Heaven's darling child, 
Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn. 
Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, 
And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defiled ? 

20 ^' Along yon glittering sky what glory streams ! 
What majesty attends Night's lovely queen ! 
Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams ; 
And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, 
And all conspire to beautify the scene : 

But, in the mental world, what chaos drear! 
What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien ! 
0, when shall that Eternal Morn appear. 
These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear ? 

.21 "0 Thou, at whose creative smile, yon Heaven, 
In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light. 
Rose from th' abyss; when dark Confusion, driven 



THE MINSTREL. 635 

Down, down tlie bottomless profound of night, 
Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing vsight ! 
0, glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, 
To blast the fury of oppressive might^ 
Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway. 
And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way! " 

22 Silence ensued ; and Edwin raised his eyes 
In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. 

" And is it thus in courtly life," he cries, 
^' That man to man acts a betrayer's part ? 
And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert. 
Each social instinct, and sublime desire ? 
Hail, Poverty! if honour, wealth, and art. 
If what the great pursue and learn'd admire. 
Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire ! " 

23 He said, and turn'd away ; nor did the Sage 
O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd. 

The Youth, his rising sorrow to assuage. 
Home, as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd: 
For now no cloud obscures the starry void; 
The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills; 
Kor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd; 
A soothing murmur the lone region fills 
Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills. 

24 But he from day to day more anxious grew. 
The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear : 
Xor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue ; 
For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear; 
And none speaks false, where there is none to hear. 
" Yet, can man's gentle heart become so fell ? 

"No more in vain conjecture let me wear 
My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell ; 
'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel." 

25 At early dawn the Youth his journey took. 
And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide, 
Then reach'd the wild ; where, in a flowery nook. 
And seated on a mossy stone, he spied 

An ancient man : his harp lay him beside. 
A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, 
And, kneeling, lick'd the wither'd hand that tied 
A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall. 
And hung his lofty neck with many a flow^eret small. 



636 BEATTIE. 

26 And now the hoary Sage arose, a.nd saw 
The wanderer approaching : innocence 
Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe 
Depress'd his eye, that fear'd to give offence. 

" Who art thon, courteous stranger ? and from whence ? 
Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale ? " 
" A shepherd boy," the Youth replied, " far hence 
My habitation ; hear my artless tale ; 
Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail. 

27 " Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms, 
I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound ; 
And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, 
Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound ; 
For in thy speech I recognise the sound. 

You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost. 
And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound, 
Pondering on former days, by guilt engross'd, 
Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd. 

28 " But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd. 
Where knowledge opens and exalts the soul? 
Where Fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd. 
Can selfishness the liberal heart control ? 

Is glory there achieved by arts as foul 
As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan ? 
Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl : ^ 
Love is the godlike attribute of man. 
O, teach a simple youth this mystery to scan. 

29 " Or else the lamentable strain disclaim. 
And give me back the calm, contented mind. 
Which, late exulting, view'd in Nature's frame 
Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined, 
Grace, grandeur, and utility combined : 
Eestore those tranquil days that saw me still 
Well pleased with all, but most with humankind ; 
When Fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will, 

Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uniformed by ill." 

30 " Wouldst thou," the Sage replied, " in peace return 
To the gay dreams of fond romantic youtli. 

Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn, 
From every gentle ear the dreadful truth : 
For if my desultory strain with ruth 
And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow, 



THE MINSTREL. 637 

Alas! what comfort could tliy anguish soothe, 
Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know ? 
Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe. 

31 ''But let untender thoughts afar be driven; 
Nor venture to arraign the dread decree : 
For know, to man, as candidate for Heaven, 
The voice of the Eternal said. Be free : 
And this divine prerogative to thee 

Does virtue, happiness, and Heaven convey ; 
For virtue is the child of liberty. 
And happiness of virtue ; nor can they 
Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray. 

32 " Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief. 
Which else might thy young virtue overpower ; 
And in thy converse I shall find relief, 

When the dark shades of melancholy lour ; 
For solitude has many a dreary hour, 
Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain : 
Come often then ; for haply, in my bower. 
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou mayst gain : 
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain." 

33 And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze 
The Muse of history unrolls her page : 
But few, alas ! the scenes her art displays. 
To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. 

Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage. 
And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn : 
Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage. 
But, lo ! ere long, is left alone to mourn. 
And languish in the dust, and clasp th' abandoned urn. 

34 " Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, 
Where ruin's gulf, unfathom'd, yawns beneath ? 
Shall life, shall liberty be lost," he said, 

"For the vain toys that Pomp and Power bequeath? 
The car of victory, the plume, the wreath 
Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave : 
No note the clarion of Eenown can breathe. 
To alarm the long night of the lonely grave. 
Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave. 

36 " Ah, what avails it to have traced the springs 
That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel? 
Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings. 



638 BEATTIB. 

Hands drencli'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel ? 
To those whom Nature taught to think and feel 
Heroes, ahis ! are things of small concern ; 
Could History man's secret heart reveal. 
And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn, 
Her transcripts to explore what bosom would not yearn ? 

36 " This praise, Cheronean sage,^ is thine ! 
(Why should this praise to thee alone belong?) 
All else from Nature's moral path decline, 
Lured by the toys that captivate the throng ; 
To herd in cabinets and camps, among 

Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride ; 
Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song. 
How tyrant blood o'er many a region wide 
Eolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide. 

37 "0, who of man the story will unfold. 
Ere victory and empire wrought annoy. 
In that Elysian age, (misnamed of gold,) 
The age of love and innocence and joy, 

When all were great and free ! man's sole employ, 
To deck the bosom of his parent Earth ; 
Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy, 
To aid the floweret's long-expected birth. 
And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of mirth? 

38 " Sweet were your shades, ye primeval groves ! 
Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent, 
Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves. 

His eye still smiling, and his heart content : 
Then, hand in hand. Health, Sport, and Labour went ; 
Nature supplied the wish she taught to crave ; 
None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent; 
To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave : 
No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave. 

39 "But, ah! th' Historic Muse has never dared 

To pierce those hallow'd bowers : 'tis Fancy's beam 
Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptur'd bard, 
That paints the charms of that delicious theme. 
Then hail, sweet Fancy's ray! and bail, the dream 
That weans the weary soul from guilt and woe ! 
Careless wliat others of my choice may deem, 

7 Plutarch is called " Cheronean sage," from Cheronea, a town in Boeotia, where 
he was born and lived. 



THE MIN^STREL. 639 

I long, where Love and Fancy lead, to go 
And meditate on Heaven ; enough of Earth I know." 

40 " I cannot blame thy choice," the Sage replied, 
'• For soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways : 
And yet even there, if left without a guide, 
The young adventurer unsafely plays. 
Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays 
In modest truth no light nor beauty find : 
And who, my child, would trust the meteor blaze, 
That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind. 
More dark and helpless far than if it ne'er had shined ? 

41- "Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart; 
And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight : 
To joy each heightening charm it can impart. 
But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night : 
And often, where no real ills affright, 
Its visionary fiends, an endless train. 
Assail with equal or superior might. 
And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain. 
And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain. 

42 " And yet, alas ! the real ills of life 

Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared. 
Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife, 
Its guide experience, and truth its guard. 
We fare on Earth as other men have fared. 
Were they successful ? Let us not despair. 
Was disappointment oft their sole reward ? 
Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare 
How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear. 

4-3 " What charms th' Historic Muse adorn, from spoils 
And blood and tyrants when she wings her flight, 
To hail the patriot prince whose pious toils. 
Sacred to science, liberty, and right. 
And peace, through every age divinely bright 
Shall shine the boast and wonder of mankind! 
Sees yonder Sun, from his meridian height, 
A lovelier scene than virtue thus enshrined 
In power, and man with man for mutual aid combined ? 

44 " Hail, sacred Polity, by Freedom rear'd ! 

Hail, sacred Freedom, when by law restrain'd ! 
Without you, what were man ? A grovelling herd, 



640 BEATTIE. 

In darkness, wretchedness, and want enchain'd. 
Sublimed by you, the Greek and Roman reign'd 
In arts unrivall'd ! 0, to latest days, 
In Albion may your influence unprofaned 
To godlike w^orth the generous bosom raise, 
And prompt the sage's lore, and fire the poet's lays ! 

45 " But now let other themes our care engage. 
For, lo, with modest yet majestic grace, 

To curb Imagination's lawless rage. 
And from within the cherish'd heart to brace, 
Philosophy appears ! The gloomy race 
By Indolence and moping Fancy bred. 
Fear, Discontent, Solicitude, give place ; 
And Hope and Courage brighten in their stead, 
While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed ! 

46 " Then waken from long lethargy to life 

The seeds of happiness and powers of thought; 
Then jarring appetites forego their strife, 
A strife by ignorance to madness WTought. 
Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought 
With fell revenge ; lust that defies control, 
With gluttony and death. The mind untaught 
Is a dark waste, where fiends and tempests howl: 
As Phoebus to the world, is science to the soul. 

47 " And Reason now through number, time, and space. 
Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye. 

And learns, from facts compared, the laws to trace. 
Whose long progression leads to Deity. 
Can mortal strength presume to soar so high ? 
Can mortal sight, so oft bedimm'd with tears, 
Such glory bear ? — for, lo ! the shadows fly 
From Nature's face ; confusion disappears. 
And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears ! 

48 " In the deep windings of the grove, no more 
The hag obscene and grisly phantom dwell ; 
Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar 
Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell ; 
'No wizard mutters the tremendous spell, 
Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon ; 

Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell, 
To ease of fancied pangs the labouring Moon, 
Or chase the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon. 



THE MINSTREL. 641 

49 **Many a long lingering year, in lonely isle, 
Stnnn'd with th' eternal turbulence of waves, 
Lo ! with dim eyes, that never learn'd to smile. 
And trembling hands, the famisli'd native craves 
Of Heaven his wretched fare ; shivering in caves, 
Or scorch'd on rocks, he pines from day to day : 
But Science gives the word ; and, lo ! he braves 
The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray. 

And to a happier land wafts merrily away ! 

50 " And even where ISTature loads the teeming plain 
With the full pomp of vegetable store. 

Her bounty, unimproved, is deadly bane: 
Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore, 
Stretch their enormous gloom ; which to explore 
Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightliest mood : 
For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, 
Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood, 
Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every flood. 

51 " 'Twas from Philosophy man learn'd to tame 
The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed : 

Lo ! from the echoing axe and thundering flame. 
Poison and plague and yelling rage are fled : 
The waters, bursting from their slimy bed. 
Bring health and melody to every vale ; 
And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head, 
Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, 
To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale. 

52 " What dire necessities on every hand 

Our art, our strength, our fortitude require ! 
Of foes intestine what a numerous band 
Against this little throb of life conspire ! 
Yet Science can elude their fatal ire 
Awhile, and turn aside Death's levell'd dart, 
Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, 
And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart, 
And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart. 

53 " Nor less, to regulate man's moral frame. 
Science exerts her all-composing sway: 
Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame. 
Or pines, to indolence and spleen a prey, 

Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they ? 
Flee to the shade of Academus' grove ; 



643 BEATTIE. 

Where cares molest not, discord melts away 
In harmony, and the pure passions prove 
How sweet the words of Truth, breathed from the lips of Love. 

54 "What cannot Art and Industry perform, 
When Science plans the progress of their toil ? 
They smile at penury, disease, and storm; 
And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. 
When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil 
A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage 
Order transforms to anarchy and spoil. 
Deep-versed in man the philosophic sage 

Prepares with lenient hand their frenzy to assuage. 

55 " 'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind. 
From situation, temper, soil, and clime 
Explored, a nation's various powers can bind. 
And various orders in one Form sublime 

Of policy, that 'midst the wrecks of time 
Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear 
Th' assault of foreign or domestic crime, 
While public faith, and public love sincere, 
And industry and law, maintain their sway severe." 

56 Enraptured by the hermit's strain, the youth 
Proceeds the path of Science to explore. 
And now, expanded to the beams of truth, 
New energies, and charms unknown before, 
His mind discloses : Fancy now no more 
Wantons on fickle pinion through the skies ; 
But, fix'd in aim, and conscious of her power, 
Aloft from cause to cause exults to rise, 
Creation's blended stores arranging as she flies. 

57 Nor love of novelty alone inspires 

Their laws and nice dependencies to scan ; 
For, mindful of the aids that life requires, 
And of the services man owes to man. 
He meditates new arts on Nature's plan ; 
The cold desponding breast of sloth to warm, 
The flame of industry and genius fan. 
And emulation's noble rage alarm. 
And the long hours of toil and solitude to charm. 

58 But she, who set on fire his infant heart. 

And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared 
And bless'd, the Muse, and her celestial art. 



THE MII^STREL. 643 

Still claim th' eufchusiast's fond and first regard. 
From Xature's beauties, variously compared 
And variously combined, he learns to frame 
Those forms of bright perfection which the bard, 
While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, 
Enamour'd, consecrates to never-dying fame. 

59 Of late, with cumbersome though pompous show, 
Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface, 
Through ardour to adorn ; but Nature now 

To his experienced eye a modest grace 
Presents, where ornament the second place 
Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design 
. Subservient still. Simplicity apace 
Tempers his rage : he owns her charm divine, 
And clears tli' ambiguous phrase, and lops th' unwieldy line. 

60 Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains) 
What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole, 
When the great shepherd of the Mantuan plains • 
His deep majestic melody 'gan roll : 

Fain would I sing what transport storm'd his soul, 
How the red current throbb'd his veins along, 
When, like Pelides, bold beyond control, 
Without art graceful, without effort strong. 
Homer raised high to heaven the loud, th' impetuous song : 

61 And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, 
Now skilled to soothe, to triumph, to complain, 
Warbling at will through each harmonious maze. 
Was taught to modulate the artful strain, 

I fain would sing : — But, ah ! I strive in vain : 
Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. 
With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, 
I haste, Avhere gleams funereal glare around, 
And, mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. 

62 Adieu, ye lays that Fancy's fiowers adorn. 
The soft amusement of the vacant mind ! 
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn. 
He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined. 
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind ! 
He sleeps in dust.^ Ah, how shall I pursue 

8 The "shepherd of the Mantuan plains" is Virgil; so called because he wrote 
pastoral Eclogues, and because his birth-place was near Mantua, in Northern Italy; 
now Modena. 

9 Professor Gregory, one of the author's colleagues in Marischal College, is the 
person here referred to. He died suddenly on the 10th of February, 1773, and the 
conclusion of the poem was written a few days after. 



644 BEATTIE. 

My theme ? To heart-consuming grief resigu'd. 
Here on his recent grave I fix my view, 
And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays adieu ! 

63 Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled? . 
And am I left to unavailing woe? 
When fortune's storms assail this weary head. 
Where cares long since have shed untimely snow, 
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go ? 
No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers : 
Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow. 
My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears. 
'Tis meet that I should mourn : flow forth afresh, my tears. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH: 

SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



Oliver Goldsmith was born November 29, 1728, at Pallas, Longford 
county, Ireland ; the second in a family of seven children. His father, the 
Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was a clercrymen of the Established Church, and had 
been educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Oliver was from infancy very dif- 
ferent from other children ; subject to strange humours ; generally serious and 
reserved, but when in gay spirits exceedingly agreeable ; and he began at an 
early period to show such signs of genius, that he quickly engaged the notice 
of all the friends of the family. At the age of eight he discovered a natural 
turn for rhyming, and often amused his father and others Avith his poetical at- 
tempts. His father had determined to educate the elder son, Henry, for the 
ministry ; and, his income being rather small, thought he could not give a lib- 
eral education to Oliver ; but his mother pleaded so hard, that she finally pre- 
vailed ; the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who had married Oliver's aunt, engaging 
to bear part of the expense. So Oliver was fitted for the University, and in 
1744 was sent to Trinity College, where he was entered under the Rev. Mr. 
Wilder, one of the fellows, but a man of harsh and violent temper, insomuch 
that the pupil, who Avas wild and wayward in his disposition, could not get 
along Avith him at all. Various difficulties and adventures grcAV out of this 
circumstance, which must here be passed over. 

While young Goldsmith was in college his father died ; but the loss was 
now supplied by his uncle Contarine, who was a man of learning and good 
position, and whose penetration enabled him to see Oliver's genius througTi all 
the dark shades that obscured it. Goldsmith took the usual degree in Febru- 
ary, 1749, two years after the regular time. His uncle wished him to prepare 
for holy orders ; but this he could not bring his mind to undertake : so it Avas 
resolved to send him to the Temple, that he might make the LaAV his profes- 
sion. But, on his way to London, he met Avith a sharper in Dublin, Avho 
tempted him to play, and emptied his pockets of the £50 Avith which he had 
been furnished for the journey. This thrcAV him back upon his uncle again ; 
and it Avas noAv decided to put him to the study of medicine ; and with this 
view he Avas sent to Edinburgh. After attending the lectures and usual 
courses there, he Avent to Leyden to complete his medical studies. He re- 
mained at Leyden about a year ; but it there appeared that he had not yet 
subdued his propensity for getting into sci*apes. One morning he came to a 
felloAV-student Avith his pockets full of cash, exulting that he had aa^ou it the 
evening before. His friend earnestly pressed him to play no more, but hus- 
band his funds for the completion of his studies. He declared his firm resolu- 
tion of doing so ; but the seductions of play Avere stronger than his purpose, 
and he Avas soon stripped of every shilling. 

By this time. Goldsmith AA'as seized Avith a passion for travelling, and he set 
out to make a long tour in Europe on foot, Avorking his Avay as he might. He 
stayed at Padua six months ; and if he ever took any degree in medicine, it 
must haA^e been there. While he Avas in Italy his uncle died, and he Avas 
obliged to foot it home, lodging in convents, AvliercA'er he found any of his 
OAvn nation. Arriving at London in the extremity of distress, he engaged 
awhile in teaching under a feigned name. This Avas in 175G. MeanAvhiie he 

645 



646 GOLDSMITH. 

went to practisinf^ medicine, — with what success is not known; but he used 
to confess that though he luid plenty of patients, he got no fees. It appears 
also that at this time he was gaining something by his pen; and in 1758 he 
got an appointment as physician to one of the factories in India. But his ar- 
dour for the voyage to Asia soon abated somewhat, and he engaged to write 
for the Monthlij Bcview, at a handsome salary. He stuck to this for some eight 
months, when the engagement was dissolved by mutual consent. He then 
removed to decent lodgings in Fleet-street, where he wrote The Vicar of Wcike- 
Jield, being meanwhile under arrest for debt. This was told to Dr. Johnson, 
who took the manuscript, and disposed of it for £60 to Mr. Newbury, a book- 
seller. The money was paid at that time, but the work did not appear till 
some two years later, when Goldsmith's poem The Traveller, published in 1765, 
had established his fame. His delightful ballad of The Hermit also made its 
appearance the same year, inscribed to the Conntess of Northumberland. 

Goldsmith's acquaintance with Johnson began in May, 1761, Avhen the latter 
went with other literary men to a su])per at Goldsmith's lodgings. One of the 
com])any was so much struck with the studied neatness of Johnson's dress, 
that he could not help asking the reason of it. " Why, sir," said Johnson, " I 
hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of clean- 
liness and decency by quoting my practice ; and I am desirous this night to show 
him a better example." 

For several years, while writing his best works, those in which all his powers 
of mind are displayed, Goldsmith was at the same time engaged in various 
inferior labours for his present support. In this way he WTOte the two series 
of essays that appeared under the general titles of The Bee and The Citizen of 
the World; in the latter of which every paper is marked by a display of judg- 
ment, wit, or humour. So, at a later period, while he had his comedy, The 
Good-Natured Man, in hand, and The Deserted Village, he wrote his Roman 
History and his History of England. 

When, in 1764, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Burke, and Johnson established the 
famous Club, Goldsmith was among the first members, the number being then 
limited to twelve. They met and had a supper every Friday evening at the 
Turk's Head tavern. But Goldsmith, with all his genius and,felicity of style, 
had no tact in conversation, and generally made a botch of it whenever he at- 
tempted to talk. This drew^ from Johnson the snug saying, that " no man was 
more I'oolish Avhen he had not a pen in his hand, or more Avise Avhen he had." 

The Good-Natured Man Avas brought out in January, 17()8, at Covent-garden 
theatre, and had fair success, the performance being repeated nine successive 
nights. This was folloAved by She Stoops to Conquer, acted at the same place 
in March, 1773, Avhere it Avon immense applause, and passed into a stock play, 
and still holds its place on the stage. 

The Deserted Village, published in 1769, is said to have atoned in the public 
mind for all the author's mistakes and defects. It is, on the Avhole, the most 
finished and elegant of all Goldsmith's productions. Though it has nothing 
that greatly kindles or rouses the mind, it is replete A\4th a certain soothing 
and SAveetening grace, and is marked throughout by consummate propriety 
both of thought and language. 

Goldsmith died on the 4th of April, 1774, the immediate cause of his death 
being an oA'crdose of medicine taken on his own judgment, and against the ad- 
vice of his attending physician. — His character Avas one of singular simplicity, 
innocence, and benevolence. Full as he Avas of Avit and humour, there Avas not 
an atom of guile or virulence in his composition. All this led to his being 
often victimized by adA-enturers, especially by needy scribblers from his own 
country, Avho found easy access to him, and emptied his pockets. He Avas in- 
deed generous in the extreme, and so strongly atlectcd hy compassion, that he 
would quit his rest at midnight, to procure relief and an asylum for a poor dy- 
ing object left destitute in the streets. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburk ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, 
"Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summers lingering blooms delay'd ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 
Where bumble happiness endeared each scene I 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill. 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
W'hen toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
AVhile many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms, — but all those charms are fled! 
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
647 



648 GOLDSMITH. 

Thy sports are fled, and all tliy charms withdrawn ; 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 

And desolation saddens all thy green : 

One only master grasps the whole domain, 

And half a tillage stints thy smihng plain ; 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall. 

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
His best companions, innocence and health ; , 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet AuBUKi^l parent of the blissful hour. 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds. 
And, many a year clasped, return to ^dew 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 



THE DESERTED TILLAGE. 649 

Swells at my breast, and turns tlie past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes, for pride attends as still, 
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn*d skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to returu, — and die at home at last. 

blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His Heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came sof ten'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The pla}4'ul children just let loose from school; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filFd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
Ko cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. 



650 GOLDSMITH. 

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled, — 

All but yon Avidow'd, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, ^ 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 

She only left of all the harmless train. 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his lieart had learn'd to prize. 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud^ 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn 'd to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his feelings lean'd to Virtue's side : 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, rej^roved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led tlie way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 651 

Despair and anguish fled the strugghng soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church., with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips preyail'd with double sw^ay. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school: 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: 
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault; 
The village all declared how much he knew, 
^Twas certain he could w^rite, and cypher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
For, e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics ranged around. 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But i^ast is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumj)h'd is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 



652 GOLDSMITH. 

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place; 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except v/hen Winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay. 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
'No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,. 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
The soul adoj)ts, and owns their first-born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 653 

The ricli man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 

'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 

Between a splendid and an happy land. 

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 

Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 

And rich men flock from all the world around. 

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 

That leaves our useful products still the same. 

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 

Takes up a space that many poor supplied : 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth; 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies. 

While thus the land's adorn'd for pleasure, all 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd ; 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms, — a garden and a grave. 

Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 



654 GOLDSMITH. 

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 

To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 

Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. 

Here, richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train : 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah ! turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 

Now, lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 

With heavy heart deplores that luckess hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town. 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburk, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex Avorld mtrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their w^oe. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 655 

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies ; — 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy- vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven! Avhat sorrows gloom'd that parting day 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
Returned and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
-The good old sire was first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and w^ept for others' woe ; 
But, for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 



656 GOLDSMITH. 

And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joj^s invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
That f ound'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well, 
Farewell; and, I where'er thy voice be tried. 
On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side, 
AVhether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Eedress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain. 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that States of native strength possesst, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



JAMES THOMSON 

SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



Ednam, a small village on the Tweed, near Kelso, in Scotland, was the 
birth-place of James Thomson; the time, September 11, 1700. He was the 
third son and the fourth child in a family of nine children. At the time of his 
birth, his father was minister of Ednam parish, but soon after removed to 
Southdean, a larger parish, near Jedburgh, where he continued till his death, 
in 1718. 

About the age of twelve, young Thomson was sent to the Jedburgh Gram- 
mar School, where he attracted the notice of a minister of the neighbourhood, 
and also of several of the gentry, by his early essays at poetry. After three 
years at the School, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, with a view 
of preparing for the ministry. At Edinburgh, the poetical reputation he had 
already won soon gained him the friendship of David Mallet and of Patrick 
Murdoch, who afterwards wrote a life of him. On the death of his father, the 
family became somewhat straitened for means ; nevertheless his mother re- 
moved with her children to Edinburgh, resolved to complete the education of 
James by strict economy. 

In due time Thomson set about his sacred studies, and stuck to them, more 
or less, till 1724, when, for some cause or other, he seems to have got so dis- 
gusted with divinity, that he threw it up, and turned his mind to more con- 
genial pursuits. Having among his associates in the University some young 
men who aspired to literary eminence, he took the advice of a lad}', a friend of 
his mother, and resolved to try his fortune in London. His old friend Mallet 
had already gone to London, and was living there ; and there Thomson ar- 
rived some" time in the year 1725, with little money in his pocket, but well 
recommended by letters of introduction to persons of influence, both social and 
literary. Before leaving Edinburgh, he had written much, if not most, of his 
Winter; and he took the manuscript with him. After some weeks in London, 
the same lady Avho had advised him to go thither was instrumental in getting 
Lim the place of tutor to a sou of Lord Binning, then residing at East Barnet, 
ten miles from the city. 

While thus employed, Thomson finished his Winter, and, this done, lost no 
time in seeking a publisher. He did not easily find one ; but at last a pub- 
lisher named Millan was induced to purchase the poem at the low price of three 
guineas. Even at this it was likely for some time to prove a bad bargain for 
the publisher, as the poem found no readers. The poem was dedicated to Sir 
Spencer Compton, then Speaker of the House of Commons, but even he took 
no notice of it. At length, the Rev. Mr. Whatley, afterwards prebendary of 
York, being one day in Millan's shop, happened to take up the poem, and was 
so much pleased with what he read, that he forthwith went to sounding the 
author's praises. The Speaker's attention Avas now drawn to the poem, and 
he invited Thomson to visit him ; and, on his doing so, made him a present of 
twenty guineas. The result was, that Winter soon became a general favourite; 
its growth in popularity being so rapid that two editions were called for before 
the year was out. The next year, 1727, Summer was given to the public, and 
was followed, in 1728, by Spring; the latter being dedicated to the Countess of 
Hertford, at whose residence it was written. 

657 



658 THOMSON". 

By this time Thomson was a recognised member of the literary circle of 
London. Still the poems were not putting much money in his purse, though 
he received fifty guineas for Spring. In 1730, a new edition of The Seasons was 
published by subscription ; the fourth of the series, Autumn, being then added 
to the others, which was dedicated to Speaker Onslow. The same edition 
included the author's poem To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton. Among the 
subscribers were many persons of high social rank, and also some of the fore- 
most men of letters ; Pope himself taking three copies. In five years Thomson 
had climbed the steep hill of fame, and now stood at the top, numbering among 
his friends and patrons the first wits of the day, the most famous poets, and 
the most distinguished members of society. 

The year before the publication of the collected Seasons, Thomson undertook 
to work the mine of dramatic poetry, thinking that the stage would bring him 
larger returns of money than he had yet gained. Accordingly his tragedy of 
Sophonisba was acted in February, 1730, and was dedicated to the Queen. 
Public expectation was raised very high, but the piece was from the first little 
better than a failure. 

The next year, the influence of Dr. Rundle, afterwards Bishop of Derry, 
procured Thomson the situation of travelling companion to Charles, son of Sir 
Charles Talbot. The continental tour with young Talbot lasted about a year, 
the travellers returning to England at the close of 1731. Young Talbot died 
the September following; and the poet lamented his death in some verses 
which speak well for his warmth of heart, though not for the felicity of hi- 
Muse. Two months afterwards. Sir Charles was made Lord Chancellor ; ana 
one of his first official acts was to appoint Thomson to the sinecure office of 
Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery. This placed the poet in a com- 
fortable position, and relieved him from dependence on his pen. As he had a 
natural love of country life, in May, 1736, he removed to Richmond, where he 
took a cottage bordering on the Thames, with a small garden attached, so that 
he could indulge his favourite taste for gardening. Here he revised and en- 
larged The Seasons, and carried them through three new editions, in 1738, 1744, 
and 1746. 

The death of the Lord Chancellor, in 1737, cost the poet his office, and this 
because, either from indolence or pride, he did not apply for it to the new 
Chancellor, who kept it open for some time on purpose that he might do so. 
Thomson noAV became straitened again for means, and so went to trying his 
hand anew at the drama. He wrote several pieces, but none of them have any 
real merit. At this period, a note-worthy incident occurred. Thomson had 
been arrested for a debt of £70. While in confinement, he was visited by 
Quin, the actor, who had a supper ordered from a neighbouring tavern. When 
it was over, Quin said it was time they should square accounts. At this the 
poet was much alarmed. The great actor then said, " When^ I read 2Vie Sea- 
sons, I was so delighted, that I put the poet down in my will for £100 ; and 
you must allow me to pay it with my own hand." He thereupon laid the sum 
on the table, and immediately withdrew. 

At length, in 1744, Lord Lyttleton came into power, a.nd he at once gave 
Thomson the office of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, also a sine- 
cure, with a salary of £300 a-year, which he held till his death, Lyttleton's seat 
at Hagley-Park being one of his favourite resorts. 

The last of Thomson's works published during his life was The Castle of In- 
dolence, which he had been working at for fifteen years. Its origin, in his fancy, 
dates back to his youth; and from a few disconnected stanzas,_ intended to 
ridicule the indolence of himself and some of his friends, it grew into its pres- 
ent shape. It is, I think, far the best of his works, and he took the most pains 
with it. ' 

The poet died in August, 1748, in consequence of a cold caught through 
careless exposure on the river. He was an exceedingly amiable man, a de- 
lightful companion, and was sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 



CANTO I. 



The castle hight of Indolence, 

And its false luxury ; 
Where for a little time, alas ! 

We lived right jollily. 

1 MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate : 
That like aii emmet thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail. 
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
Withouten^ that would come a heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 

2 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side. 

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
And tliere a season atween June and May, 
Half prankt with Spring, with Summer half imbrown'd, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 

3 Was nought around but images of rest: 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest. 
From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green. 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets played, 

1 Such archaic forms are sometimes used by Thomson in this poem, where the 
verse wants the extra syllable, in order to give a more Spenserian smack to the 
stjle. So we have casten for cast. For the same reasons, the letter?/ is sometimes 
prefixed to a word, as yborn, ydad, &c. — For the meaning of archaic and obsolete 
words, see Glossary at the end of the poem. 

659 



660 THOMSOif. 

And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

4 Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,. 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills. 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail. 
Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 

And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

5 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood. 

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
As Idless ^ fancied in her dreaming mood ; 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 
And where this valley winded out, below. 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 

6 A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was. 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that ;^ass. 
For ever flushing round a summer sky : 
There eke the soft delights that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast; 
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh ; 
But whate'er smack'd of noyance or unrest, 
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 

7 The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease. 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close-hid his castle 'mid embowering trees. 
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright. 
And made a kind of chequer'd day and night : 
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate. 
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
Was placed ; and, to his lute, of cruel fate 

And labour harsh complain'd, lamenting man's estate. 

8 Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
From all the roads of earth that pass there by : 

2 Idless for idleness, which is here personified. 



THE CASTLE OF IlfDOLEKCE. 661 

For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill. 
The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh ; 
Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, 
Ymolten with his siren melody; 
While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 
And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: 

9 "Behold! ye pilgrims of this Earth, behold! 
See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay; 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold. 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May ! 
What youthful bride can equal her array ? 

. Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ? 
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 

Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 

10 "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn. 
The swarming songsters of the careless grove. 

Ten thousand throats ! that, from the flowering thorn. 
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : 
They neither plough nor sow ; ne, fit for flail,^ 
E'er to the barn the nodden sheaves they drove ; 
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale. 
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 

11 " Outcast of Nature, man ! the wretched thrall 
Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain. 

Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, 
And of the vices, an inhuman train. 
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain : 
For when hard-hearted interest first began 
To poison Earth, Ast'rsea left the plain ; 
Guile, violence, and murder seized on man. 
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. 

12 " Come, ye, who still the cumbrous load of life 
Push hard up hill ; but, as the farthest steep 
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, 
And hurls your labours to the valley deep. 

For ever A' ain ; — come, and, withouten fee, 
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 

3 Fit for flail is ready to be tlireshed. 



662 THOMSON. 

Your cares, your toils ; will steep you iu a sea 
Of full delight; 0, come, ye weary wights, to me! 

13 "With me, you need not rise at early dawn, 
To pass the J03^1ess day in various stounds; 
Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn. 
And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds ; 
Or through the city take your dirty rounds, 
To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, 
Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds ; 
Or prowl in courts of law for human prey. 

In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. 

14 "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, 
From village on to village sounding clear ; 

To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall ; 
No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; 
No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith sere, 
Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, 
With sounds that are a misery to hear ; 
But all is calm, as would delight the heart 
Of Sybarite of old, all Nature, and all Art. 

15 " Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease. 
Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down : 
They who are pleased themselves must always please ; 
On others' ways they never squint a frown. 

Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town. 
Thus, from the source of tender Indolence, 
With milky blood the heart is overflown. 
Is soothed and sweeten'd by the social sense ; 
For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banish'd hence. 

16 " What, what is virtue but repose of mind, 
A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; 
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, 
Above those passions that this world deform. 
And torture man, a proud malignant worm ? 
But here, instead, soft gales of passion play. 
And gently stir the heart, thereby to form 

A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray 
Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still more gay. 

17 " The best of men have ever loved repose ; 
They hate to mingle in tlie filthy fray, 

.Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, 
Embitter'd more from peevish day to day. 



THE CASTLE OF IJfDOLEXCE. 663 

E'en those whom fame has lent her fairest ray. 
The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, 
From a base world at last have stolen away: 
So Scipio, to the soft Cumaean shore 
Eetiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 

18 " But if a little exercise 3^ou clioose, 
Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here : 
Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, 
Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; 
Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, 
Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry 
You may delude; the whilst, amused, you hear 

. Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, 
Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. 

19 " grievous folly ! to heap up estate. 
Losing the days you see beneath the Sun ; 
When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate. 
And gives tli' untasted portion you have won 
With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone. 
To those Avho mock you, gone to Pluto's reign. 
There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: 
But sure it is of vanities most vain. 

To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." 

20 He ceased. But still their trembling ears retain'd 
The deep vibrations of his witching song ; 

That, by a kind of magic power, constrain'd 
To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng. 
Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipp'd along, 
In silent ease : as when beneath the beam 
Of summer Moons, the distant woods among, 
Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam. 
The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. 

21 By the smooth demon so it order'd was. 
And here his baneful bounty first began ; 

Though some there were who would not further pass, 
And his alluring baits suspected han. 
The wise distrust the too fair-spoken man ; 
Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye : 
]N'ot to move on, perdie, is all they can ; 
For do their very best they cannot fly, 
But often each way look, ani often sorely sigh. 

22 When this the watchful wicked wizard saw. 
With sudden spring he leap'd upon them straight ; 



664 THOMSON?-. 

And, soon as touched by his nnhallow'd paw, 
They found themselves within the cursed gate ; 
Full hard to be repass'd, hke that of fate. 
Not stronger were of old the giant crew 
Who sought to pull high Jove from regal state : 
Though feeble wretch he seem'd, of sallow hue, 
Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter rue. 

23 For whomsoe'er the villain takes in hand, 
Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace; 
As lithe they grow as any willow-wand, 
And of their vanish'd force remains no trace : 
So when a maiden fair, of modest grace. 

In all her buxom blooming May of charms. 
Is seized in some losel's hot embrace. 
She waxeth very weakly as she warms. 
Then sighing yields her up to love's delicious harms. 

24 Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose 
A comely, full-spread porter, swoln with sleep : 

His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed repose ; 
And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, 
Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep; 
While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, 
Through which his half- waked soul would faintly peep; 
Then, taking his black staff, he call'd his man. 
And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. 

25 The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call : 
He was, to weet, a little roguish page, 

Save sleep and play who minded nought at all. 
Like most the untaught striplings of his age. 
This boy he kept each band to disengage, , 
Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, 
And ill becoming his grave personage, 
And which his portly paunch would not permit; 
So this same limber page to all performed it. 

26 Meantime the master-porter wide display'd 
Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns ; 
Wherewith he those who enter'd in array'd 
Loose as the breeze that plays along the downs. 
And waves the summer woods when evening frowns: 
fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, 

But every flowing Umb in pleasure drowns. 
And heightens each with grace. This done, right fain 
Sir porter sat him down, and turn'd to sleep again. 



THE CASTLE OF IN^D0LE1?"CE. 665 

27 Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped 
That in the middle of the court up-threw 

A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed. 
And falling back again in drizzly dew : 
There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew; 
It was a fountain of nepenthe rare ; 
Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasance grew. 
And sweet oblivion of yile earthly care ; 
Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair. 

28 This rite performed, all inly pleased and still, 
Withouten tromp, was proclamation made : 
"Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will; 

And wander where you list, through hall or glade ; 
Be no man's pleasure for another stay'd; 
Let each as likes him best his hours employ, 
And cursed be he who minds his neighbour's trade ! 
Here dAvells kind ease and unreproving joy; 
He little merits bliss who others can annoy." 

29 Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round 
As thick as idle motes in sunny ray, 

Not one eftsoons in view was to be found. 
But every man stroU'd off his own glad way ; 
Wide o'er this ample court's blank area, 
With all the lodges that thereto pertain'd, 
No living creature could be seen to stray ; 
While solitude and perfect silence reign'd; 
So that to think you dreamt you almost Avere constrain'd. 

30 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, 
Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles. 
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
To stand embodied to our senses plain,) 
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low. 

The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
A vast assembly moving to and fro ; 
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 

31 Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound ! 
Whose soft dominion o'er this castle SAvays, 
And all the widely silent places round, 
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays 
What never yet was sung in mortal lays. 

But how shall I attempt such arduous string ? 
I who have spent my nights, and nightly days, 



Q66 THOMSON. 

In this soul-deadening place loose-loitering : 
Ah ! how shall I for this uprear my moulted wing ? 

32 Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair, 
Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire ! 
Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair. 
Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire ; 
Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; 
Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage. 
Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, 
The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, 

Dashing corruption down through every worthless age. 

33 The doors, that knew no shrill alarming-bell, 
Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, 
Self-open'd into halls, where who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ? 
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread. 
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band ; 
And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 

So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed : 

34 And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood. 

With wines high-flavour'd and rich viands crown'd ; 
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
On the green bosom of this Earth are found, 
And all old ocean 'genders in his round, ' 
Some hand unseen these silently display' d, 
Even undemanded by a sign or sound; 
You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd. 
Pair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd. 

35 Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy ; 
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall, 
Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy. 
And with envenom'd tongue our pleasures pall : 
Por wliy * there was but one great rule for all, — 
To wit, that each should work his own desire, 
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 

Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre. 
And carol wliat, unhid, the Muses might inspire. 

4 For why is because, or for the reason that. See page 628, note 5. To the instance 
there quoted I here add another, from the fine old ballad, 31y Mlitd to me a Kingdom is: 

"This is my choyce, /or- ?<;/?.?/ 1 finde 
No wealth is like a quiet iniude." 



THE CASTLE OF IlJfDOLEKCE. G67 

36 The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale, 
Such as of old the rural poets sung, 

Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : 
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, 
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart ; 
Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale, 
And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart ; 
While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. 

37 Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, 
Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 

What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land. 
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage. 
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. 
Toil was not then ; of nothing took they heed. 
But with wild beasts the silvan war to wage. 
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed : 
Bless'd sons of Nature they ! true golden age indeed 1 

38 Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. 

Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, , 
Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls : 
Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish'd eyes ; 
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies ; 
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, 
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ; 
Wliate'er Lorraine light-touch'd with softening hue, 
Or savage Eosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. 

39 Each sound too here to languishment inclined, 
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease ; 
Aerial music in the warbling wind. 

At distance rising oft, by small degrees. 
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs 
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares. 
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 

40 A certain music, never known before. 
Here lull'd the pensive, melancholy mind ; 
Eull easily obtain'd. Behoves no more. 
But sidelong, to the gently waving wind, 
To lay the w^ell-tunecl instrument reclined ; 
Erom which, with airy flying fingers light, 
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. 



668 THOMSOK. 

The god of winds drew sounds of deep deliglit : 
Whence, with just cause, the harp of iEokis it hight. 

41 Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
Who up the lofty diapason roll 

Such sAveet, such sad, such solemn airs divine. 
Then let them down again into the soul ? 
Now rising love they f ann'd ; now pleasing dole 
They breathed, in tender musings through the heart ; 
And now a graver sacred strain they stole. 
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart ; 
Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art ! 

42 Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, 
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris' shore. 
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great. 

Held their bright court, where was of ladies store ; 
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : 
When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, 
Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore ; 
Composing music bade his dreams be fair, 
And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 

43 Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell. 
And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began 
(So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
At doors and windows, tlireatening, seem'd to call 
The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 

Yet the least entrance found they none at all ; 
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 

44 And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. 
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, 
That play'd in waving lights from place to place, 
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. 

Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array. 
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. 
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 

45 No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
My Muse will not attempt your fairy land ; 
She has no colours that like you can glow : 
To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 



THE CASTLE OF IKDOLEKCE. 669 

But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band 
Than these same guileful angel-seeming* sprights, 
Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon our nights. 
And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights. 

46 They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train, 
Even feigning virtue ; skilful to unite 

With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
But for those fiends whom blood and broils delight; 
Who hurl the wretch, as if to Hell outright, 
Down, down black gulfs, where sullen waters sleep ; 
Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
■ On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep ; 
They, till due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. 

47 Ye guardian spirits to whom man is dear, 

From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom : 
Angels of fancy and of love, be near. 
And o'er. the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: 
Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Eome, 
And let them virtue with a look impart : 
But chief, awhile, 0, lend us from the tomb 
Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, 
And fill with pious awe and joy-mix'd woe the heart ! ^ 

48 Or are you sportive ? — bid the morn of youth 
Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days 
Of innocence, simplicity, and truth. 

To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. 

What transport, to, retrace our boyish plays. 

Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied ; 
• The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze 

Of the wild brooks ! — But, fondly wandering wide, 
My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee abide. 

49 One great amusement of our household was, 
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy,. 

Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass 
Upon this ant-hill Earth ; where constantly 
Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste, 
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly, 
Or which, obtain'd, the caitiffs dare not taste : — 
When nothing is enjoy' d, can there be greater waste ? 



670 THOMSON. 

50 " Of vanity the mirror/' this was calFd : 
Here, you a muckworm of the town may see, 
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall'd, 
Eat up with carking care and penury; 
Most like to carcass parched on gallow-tree. 

'' A penny saved is a penny got : " 
Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, 
Ne of its rigour will he bate a Jot, 
Till he has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. 

51 Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! 
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, 
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold. 

The silly tenant of the summer air ; 
In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile. 
And thieving tradesmen him among them share ; 
His father's ghost from limbo lake the while 
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. 

52 This globe portray'd the race of learned men, 
Still at their books, and turning o'er the page. 
Backwards and forwards : oft they snatch the pen, 
As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage ; 

Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage : 
Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore ? 
To lose the present, gain the future age, 
Praised to be when you can hear no more, 
And much enrich'd with fame, when useless worldly store. 

53 Then would a splendid city rise to view, 
With carts and cars and coaches roaring all : 
Wide-pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew; 
See how they dash along from wall to wall ; 
At every door, hark how they thnndering call! 
Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite ? 
Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall ; 

A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight. 
And make new tiresome parties for the coming night. 

54 The puzzling sons of party next appear'd. 
In dark cabals and nightly juntos met; 

And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging rear'd 

Th' important shoulder; then, as if to get 

New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. 

No sooner Lucifer recalls affairs. 

Than forth they various rush in mighty fret. 



THE CASTLE OF IN^DOLENCE. 671 

When, lo ! push'd up to power, and crown'd their cares, 
In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. 

55 But what most show'd the vanity of life, 
Was to behold the nations all on fire, 

In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife : 
Most Christian kings, inflamed by black desire, 
With honourable ruffians in their hire. 
Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour ; 
Of this sad work when each begins to tire. 
Then sit them down just where they were befoxe, 
Till, for new scenes of woe, peace shall their force restore. 

56 To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
A useless were, and eke an endless task ; 

• From kings, and those who at the helm appear, 
To gipsies brown in summer glades who bask. 
Yea, many a man, perdie, I could unmask. 
Whose desk and table make a solemn show. 
With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask 
For place or pension laid in decent row ; 
But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 

57 Of all the gentle tenants of the place. 
There was a man of special grave remark: 
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face. 
Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; 
As soot this man could sing as morning lark. 
And teach the noblest morals of the heart : 

But these his talents were yburied stark; 
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart 
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. 

58 To noontide shades incontinent he ran. 

Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound ; 
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began. 
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground. 
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found: ^ 
There would he linger, till the latest ray 
Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, 
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day. 

59 Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past : 
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast. 
And all its native light anew reveal'd : 



672 THOMSON. 

Oft as lie traversed the cerulean field, 
And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, 
Ten thousand glorious systems would lie build. 
Ten thousand great ideas filFd his mind ; 
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. 

60 With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, 
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,) 
One shier still, who quite detested talk : 

Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke. 
To groves of pine and broad overshadowing oak ; 
There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone, 
And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone 
The glittering star of eve, — "Thank Heaven! the day is 
done." * 

61 Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad 
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ; 

In chamber brooding like a loathly toad ; 
And sure his linen was not very clean. 
Through secret loopholes, that had practised been 
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
Unkempt and rough, of squalid face and mien. 
Our castle's shame ! whence, from his filth}' nook, 
We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look. 

62 One day there chanced into these halls to rove 
A joyous youth, who took you at first sight; 
Him' the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, 
Before the sprightly tempest-tossing light ; 
Certes, he was a most engaging wight. 

Of social glee, and wit humane though keen, 
Turning the night to day, and day to night : 
For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, 
If, in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been. 

63 But not e'en pleasure to excess is good : 
What most elates, then sinks the soul as low: 
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood. 
The higher still th' exulting billows flow, 

The further back again they flagging go. 
And leave us grovelling on VAe dreary shore: 
Taught by thi's son of Joy, we found it so, 

-5 This stanza refers, it is said, to Thomson's very particular friend. Dr. Arm- 
strong, the author of a considerable poem entitled 2Vte Art of Preserving Health. 



THE CASTLE OF IN^DOLENCE. 673 

Who whilst he stay'd, he kept in gay uproar 
Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more. 

64 As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, 
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, 
Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky. 
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, 
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng ; 

And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drowu'd, 
. He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, 
And scares their tender sleep with trump profound ; , 
Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. 

65 Another guest there was, of sense refined, 
Who felt^ each worth, for every worth he had ; 
Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind. 
As little touch'd as any man's with bad : 

Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, 
To him the sacred love of Nature lent ; 
And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; 
When as we found he would not here be pent. 
To him the better sort this friendly message sent : 

66 " Come, dwell with us, true son of virtue, come ! 
But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade 

To lie content beneath our peaceful dome, 
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade ; 
Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid 
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark. 
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade. 
There to indulge the Muse, and JSTature mark : 
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park." * 

67 Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age ; 
But call'd by fame, in soul ypricked deep, 
A noble pride restored him to the stage. 
And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap : 
With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes. 
Yet quits not Nature's bounds. He knows to keep 
Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes, 

And now with well-urged sense th' enlighten'd judgment 
takes.^ 

6 The owner and occupant of Hagley Park was LorcILyttleton, one of Thomson's 
first and warmest friends. 

7 The subject of this stanza was Mr. Quin, a distinguished actor, a generous 
friend of Thomson, and a right worthy man. 



674 THOMSON". 

68 A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems ; 
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, 

On virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes, 
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain : 
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,. 
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 
Here quaff' d, encircled with the joyous train, 
Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet 
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.® 

69 Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod ; 
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy. 
A little, round, fat, oily man of God 

Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry : 
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye. 
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, 
And straight would recollect his piety anew.® 

70 Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought 
(Old inmates of the place) but State affairs: 
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought. 
And on th^ir brow sat every nation's cares ; 
The world by them is parcell'd out in shares. 
When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold, 
And the sage berry, sun-burnt Mocha bears. 

Has clear'd their inward eye : then, smoke-enroll'd, 
Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. 

71 Here languid Beauty kept her pale-faced court ; 
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree. 

From every quarter hither made resort ; 
Where, from gross mortal care and business free. 
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury ; 
Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be? 
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. 

72 Their only labour was to kill the time ; 
(And labour dire it is, and weary woe ;) 
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; 

8 This stanza was meant as a portrait of Thomson himself, and was written by- 
Lord Lyttleton. 

9 The Rev. Di. Murdoch, another of the poet's friends, was the subject of this 
playful stanza. 



THE CASTLE OF HyTDOLENCE. 675 

Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 
Or saunter forth, Avith tottering step and slow : 
This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw, 
Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclined. 
And court the vapoury god, soft breathing in the wind. 

73 One nymph there was, me thought, in bloom of May, 
On whom the idle fiend glanced many a look, 

In hopes to lead her down the slippery way 
To taste of Pleasure's deep-deceitful brook : 
No virtues yet her gentle mind forsook ; 
No idle whims, no vapours fill'd her brain. 
But prudence for her youthful guide she took. 
And goodness, which no earthly vice could stain, 
Dwelt in her mind ; she was ne proud, I ween, or vain. 

74 Now must I mark the villainy we found. 
But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. 
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground ; 
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, 
Diseased and loathsome, privily were thrown : 

Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there, 
Unpitied uttering many a bitter groan ; 
For of these wretches taken was no care : 
Fierce fiends, and hags of Hell their only nurses were. 

75 Alas, the change ! from scenes of joy and rest. 
To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. 
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, 
Stretch'd on his back, a miglity lubbard, lay. 
Heaving his sides, and snored night and day ; 
To stir him from his trance it was not eath, 
And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway : 
He led, I wot, the softest way to death. 

And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. 

76 Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, 
Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy: 
Unwieldy man ; with belly monstrous round. 
For ever fed with watery supply ; 

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. 
And moping here did Hypochondria sit, 
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye, 
W^ho vexed was full oft Avith ugly fit ; 
And some her frantic deem'd and some her deem'd a wit. 



676 THOMSOK. 

77 A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, 

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low: 
She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood. 
All the diseases which the spittles know. 
And sought all physic which the shops bestow. 
And still new leeches and new drugs would try, 
Her humour ever wavering to and fro : 
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry. 
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. 

78 Fast by her side a listless maiden pined. 

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; 
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind. 
Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. 
And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings ; 
The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, 
A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; 
Whilst Apoplexy crammM Intemperance knocks 
Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.^ 



CANTO II. 

Tbe Kni^t of Arts and Industry, 

And his achievements fair; 
That, by this castle's overthrow. 

Secured, and crowned were. 

1 Escaped the castle of the sire of sin. 

Ah ! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find? 
For, all around, without, and all within, 
Nothing save what delightful was and kind. 
Of goodness savouring and a tender mind. 
E'er rose to view. But now another strain. 
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind: 
I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain, 
And of the false enchanter Indolence complain. 

2 Is there no patron to protect the Muse, 
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil ? 
To every labour its reward accrues. 

And they are sure of bread who swink and moil ; 
But a fell tribe th' Aonlan hive despoil. 
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee : 
Tiius while the laws not guard that noblest toil, 

1 This and the three preceding stanzas are from the pen of Dr. Armstrong, who 
is said to have written them at Thomson's request. 



THE CASTLE OF II^DOLEN^CE. 677 

Ne for tlie Muses other meed decree, 
They praised are alone, and starve right merrily. 

3 I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And 1 their toys to the great children leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 

4 Come, then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song ; 
Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, 
Dragging the lazy languid line along, 

Fond to begin, but still to finish loth, 
Thy half -writ scrolls all eaten by the moth : 
Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame, 
Who, with the sons of softness nobly wroth, 
To sweep away this human lumber came. 
Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame. 

5 In Fairy Land there lived a knight of old, 
Of feature stern, Selvaggio well ycleped, 
A rough unpolish'd man, robust and bold, 

But wondrous poor : he neither sow'd nor reap'd, 
Ne stores in Summer for cold Winter lieap'd; 
In hunting all his days away he wore ; 
Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd. 
Now pinch'd by biting January sore. 
He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar. 

6 As he one morning, long before the dawn, 
Prick'd through the forest to dislodge his prey. 
Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn, 

With wood wild fringed, he mark'd a taper's ray, 
That from the beating rain, and wintry fray. 
Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy ; 
There, up to earn the needments of the day. 
He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy : 
He wedded her, and him she bore a lusty boy. 

7 Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred. 
And grew at last a knight of muchel fame, 
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed, 



678 THOMSON. 

The Knight of Arts and Industry by name : 
Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame ; 
He knew no beverage but the flowing stream ; 
His tasteful well-earn'd food the silvan game. 
Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem : 
The same to him glad Summer, or the Winter breme. 

8 So pass'd his youthly morning, void of care. 
Wild as the colts that through the commons run : 
For him no tender parents troubled were. 

He of the forest seem'd to be the son ; 
And, certes, had been utterly undone, 
But that Minerva pity of him took. 
With all the gods that love the rural wonne. 
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook ; 
Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. 

9 Of fertile genius him they nurtured well. 
In every science and in every art 

By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel. 
That can or use or joy or grace impart, 
Disclosing all the powers of head and heart ; 
Ne were the goodly exercises spared 
That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert. 
And mix elastic force with firmness hard : 
Was never knight on ground mote be with him compared. 

10 Sometimes, with early mom, he mounted gay 
The hunter steed, exulting o'er the dale. 
And drew the roseate breath of orient day ; 
Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale, 

Yclad in steel, and bright with burnished mail. 
He strain'd the bow, or toss'd the sounding spear. 
Or, darting on the goal, outstripped the gale. 
Or wheerd the chariot in its mid career. 
Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer. 

11 At other times he pried through Nature's store, 
Whate'er she in th' ethereal round contains. 
Whatever she hides beneath her verdant floor. 
The vegetable and the mineral reigns; 

Or else he scann'd the globe, those small domains 
Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep, 
Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and it-s plains ; 
But more he searched the mind, and roused from sleep 
Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLEJS^CE. 679 

12 Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits 
Of heayenly truth, and practise what she taught : 
Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits ! 
Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught, 
Forth calling all with which boon earth is fraught ; 
Sometimes he plied the strong meclianic tool, 

Or rear'd the fabric from the finest draught ; 
And oft he put himself to N^eptune's school. 
Fighting with winds and waves on the vex'd ocean pool. 

13 To solace then these rougher toils, he tried 
To touch the kindling canvas into life ; 
With Nature his creating pencil vied, 

- With Nature joyous at the mimic strife : 
Or to such shapes as graced Pygmalion's wife 
He hcAv'd the marble ; or, with varied fire. 
He roused the trumpet and the martial fife. 
Or bad the lute sweet tenderness inspire. 
Or verses framed that well might wake Apollo's lyre. 

14 Accomplish'd thus, he from the woods issued, 
Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprise ; 
The work which long he in his breast had brew'd, 
Now to perform he ardent did devise ; 

To wit, a barbarous world to civilise. 
Earth was still then a boundless forest wild ; 
Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies ; 
No cities nourish'd arts, no culture smiled. 
No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. 

15 A rugged wight, the worst of brutes, was man ; 
On his OAvn wretched kind he ruthless prey'd ; 
The strongest still the weakest overran ; 

In every country mighty robbers sway'd. 
And guile and ruffian force were all their trade : 
Life was a scene of rapine, want, and woe ; 
Which this brave knight, in noble anger, made 
To swear he would the rascal rout o'erthrow, 
For, by the powers divine, it should no more be so. 

16 It would exceed the purport of my song 

To say how this best Sun, from orient climes. 
Came beaming life and beauty all along. 
Before him chasing indolence and crimes. 
Still as lie pass'd, the nations he sublimes. 
And calls forth arts and virtues with liis ray : 



680 THOMSOiq-. 

Then Egypt, Greece, and Kome their golden times, 
Successive, had ; but now in ruins grey 
They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey. 

17 To crown his toils, Sir Industry then spread 
The swelling sail, and made for Britain's coast. 
A silvan life till then the natives led, 

In the brown shades and greenwood forest lost, 
All careless rambling where it liked them most ; 
Their wealth the wild deer bouncing through the glade; 
They lodged at large, and lived at ifature's cost, 
Save spear and bow, withouten other aid ; 
Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast dismay'd. 

18 He liked the soil, he liked the clement skies, 
He liked the verdant hills and flowery plains: 
" Be this my great, my chosen isle," he cries, 
" This, whilst my labours Liberty sustains, 
This queen of ocean all assault disdains." 
N^or liked he less the genius of the land. 

To freedom apt and persevering pains. 
Mild to obey, and generous to command. 
Tempered by forming Heaven with kindest, firmest hand. 

19 Here, by degrees, his master-work arose, 
Whatever arts and industry can frame ; 
Whatever finished agriculture knows. 

Fair queen of arts ! from Heaven itself who came. 
When Eden flourish'd in unspotted fame ; 
And still with her sweet innocence we find, 
And tender peace, and joys without a name. 
That, while they ravish, tranquillise the mind: 
Nature and art at once, delight and use combined. 

20 Then towns he quicken'd by mechanic arts. 
And bade the fervent city glow with toil ; 
Bade social commerce raise renowned marts, 
Join land to land, and marry soil to soil ; 
Unite the poles, and without bloody spoil 
Bring home of either Ind the gorgeous stores ; 
Or, should despotic rage tlie world embroil. 
Bade tyrants tremble on remotest shores, 

While o'er th' encircling deep Britannia's thunder roars. 

21 The drooping Muses then he westward call'd 
From the famed city by Propontic sea. 

What time the Turk th' enfeebled Grecian thrall'd ; 



THE CASTLE OF IN"DOLEKCE. 681 

Thence from their oloister'd walks he set them free, 
And brought them to another Castalie, 
Where Isis many a famous nursling breeds ; 
Or where old Cam soft-paces o'er the lea 
In pensive mood, and tunes his Doric reeds, 
The whilst his flocks at large the lonely shepherd feeds. 

22 Yet the fine arts were what he finished least ; 
For why ^ they are the quintessence of all, 

The growth of labouring time, and slow increased ; 

Unless, as seldom chances, it should fall 

That mighty patrons the coy sisters call 

Up to the sunshine of uncumber'd ease, 
- Where no rade care the mounting thought may thrall, 

And where they nothing have to do but please : 
Ah, gracious God ! Thou know'st they ask no other fees. 

23 But now, alas ! we live too late in time : 

Our pati-ons now e'en grudge that little claim, 
Except to such as sleek the soothing rhyme ; 
And yet, forsooth, they wear Maecenas' name, 
Poor sons of puft-up vanity, not fame. 
Unbroken spirits, cheer ! still, still remains 
Th' eternal patron, Liberty ; whose flame. 
While she protects, inspires the noblest strains : 
The best and sweetest far, are toil-created gains. 

24 Whenas the knight had framed, in Britain-land, 
A matchless form of glorious government. 

In which the sovereign laws alone command. 
Laws, 'stablish'd by the public free consent. 
Whose majesty is to the sceptre lent; — 
When this great plan, with each dependent art. 
Was settled firm, and to his heart's content. 
Then sought he from the toilsome scene to part. 
And let life's vacant eve breathe quiet through the heart. 

25 For this he chose a farm in Deva's vale. 
Where his long alleys peep'd upon the main: 
In this calm seat he drew the healthful gale. 
Here mix'd the chief, the patriot, and the swain. 
The happy monarch of his silvan train. 

Here, sided by the guardians of the fold, 

He walk'd his rounds, and cheer'd his blest domain : 

2 Because. See page 666, note 4. 



682 THOMSON. 

His days, the days of imstain'd nature, rolPd 
Eeplete with peace and joy, like patriarchs of old. 

26 Witness, ye lowing herds who gave him milk ; 
Witness, ye flocks Avhose woolly vestments far 
Exceed soft India's cotton or her silk ; 
Witness, with Autumn charged the nodding car 
That homeward came heneath sweet evening's star. 
Or of September-moons the radiance mild. 

0, hide thy head, abominable war ! 
Of crimes and ruffian idleness the child ! 
From Heaven this life ysprung, from Hell thy glories vild ! 

27 Nor from his deep retirement banish'd was 
Th' amusing care of rural industry. 

Still, as with grateful change the seasons pass, 
New scenes arise, new landscapes strike the eye, 
And all th' enliven'd country beautify ; 
Gay plains extend where marshes slept before ; 
O'er recent meads th' exulting streamlets fly ; 
Dark-frowning heaths grow bright with Ceres' store, 
And woods imbrown the steep, or wave along the shore. 

28 As nearer to his farm you made approach, 
He polish'd Nature with a finer hand; 

Yet on her beauties durst not Art encroach ; 
'Tis Art's alone these beauties to expand. 
In graceful dance immingled, o'er the land 
Pan, Pales, Flora, and Pomona play'd; 
Here, too, brisk gales the rude wild common fann'd: 
A happy place ; where free, and unaffray'd, 
Amid the flowering brakes each coyer creature stray'd. 

29 But in prime vigour what can last for aye ? 
That soul-enfeebling wizard Indolence, 

I whilom sung, Avrought in his works decay : 
Spread far and wide was his cursed influence ; 
Of public virtue much he dull'd the sense, 
E'en much of private ; eat our spirit out. 
And fed our rank luxurious vices : whence 
The land was overlaid with many a lout ; 
Not, as old fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout. 

30 A rage of pleasure madden'd every breast ; 
Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran ; 
To his licentious wish each must be bless'd, 
With joy be fever'd, snatch it as he can. 



THE CASTLE OF Iis"DOLEIsCE. 683 

Thus vice the standard rear'd ; her arrier-ban 
Corruption call'd, and loud she gave the word, 
" Mind, mind yourselves ! why should tlie vulgar man, 
The lacquey, be more virtuous than his lord ? 
Enjoy this span of life ! 'tis all the gods afford." 

31 The tidings reached to where, in quiet hall, 
The good old knight enjoy'd well-earn'd repose : 

'• Come, come, sir knight !*^ thy children on thee call ; 
Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close ! 
The demon Indolence thy toils o'erthrows." 
On this the noble colour stain'd his cheeks, 
Indignant, glowing through the whitening snows 
Of venerable eld; his eye fall speaks 
His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks, 

32 " I will," he cried, " so help me God ! destroy 
That villain Archimage." — His page then straight 
He to him call'd ; a fiery-footed boy, 

BenemjDt Dispatch : — ^' My steed be at the gate ; 
My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of fate." 
This net was twisted by the Sisters Three ; 
Which when once cast o'er harden'd wretch, too late 
Eepentance comes ; replevy cannot be 
From the strong iron grasp of vengeful destiny. 

33 He came, the bard, a little druid wight, 
Of wither'd aspect ; but his eye was keen. 

With sweetness mix'd. In russet brown bedight. 
As is liis sister of the copses green,* 
He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, 
Bright as the children of yon azure sheen ! 
True comeliness, which nothing can impair. 
Dwells in the mind : all else is vanity and glare. 

34 " Come," quoth the knight, "a voice has reach'd mine ear: 
The demon Indolence threats overflow 

To all that to mankind is good and dear : 

Come, Philomelus ; let us instant go, 

O'erturn his bowers, and lay his castle low. 

Those men, those wretched men ! who will be slaves, 

Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe : 

3 "His sister of the copses green" is the nightingale. So, in the next stanza, 
'•the bard" is called Philomelus, the brother of Philomela, that is, lover of sweet- 
ness or melody. 



684 THOMSOI?^. 

But some there be, thy song, as from their graves, 
Shall raise." Thrice happy he who without rigour saves ! 

35 Issuing forth, the knight bestrode his steed, 
Of ardent bay, and on whose front a star 

Shone blazing bright ; sprung from the generous breed 
That whirl of active day the rapid car, 
He pranced along, disdaining gate or bar. 
Meantime the bard on milk-white palfrey rode ; 
An honest, sober beast, that did not mar 
His meditations, but full softly trode : 
And much they moralised as thus yfere they yode. 

36 They talk'd of virtue and of human bliss; 
What else so fit for man to settle well ? 
And still their long researches met in this. 
This Truth of Truths, which nothing can refell : 
"From virtue's fount the purest joys outwell. 
Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul ; 
While vice pours forth the troubled streams of Hell, 
The which, howe'er disguised, at last with dole 

Will through the tortured breast their fiery torrent roll." 

37 At length it dawn'd, that fatal valley gay. 

O'er which high wood-crown'd hills their summits rear: 
On the cool height awhile our palmers stay. 
And spite even of themselves their senses cheer ; 
Then to the wizard's wonne their steps they steer. 
Like a green isle, it broad beneath them spread. 
With gardens round, and wandering currents clear, 
And tufted groves to shade the meadow-bed. 
Sweet airs and song ; and without hurry all seem'd glad. 

38 "As God shall judge me, knight ! we must forgive," 
The half-enraptured Philomelus cried, 

" The frail good man deluded here to live. 
And in these groves his musing fancy hide. 
Ah ! nought is pure. It cannot be denied. 
That virtue still some tincture has of vice. 
And vice of virtue. What should then betide, 
But that our charity be not too nice? 
Come, let us those we can, to real bliss entice." 

39 '-Ay, sicker," quoth the knight, "all flesh is frail, 
To pleasant sin and jo3'ous dalliance bent; 

But let not brutish vice of this avail, 
And think to 'scape deserved punishment. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 685 

Justice were cruel weakly to relent ; 
From mercy's self she got her sacred glaive: 
Grace be to those who can, and will, repent; 
But penance long and dreary, to the slave. 
Who must in floods of ire his gross foul spirit lave." 

40 Thus, holding high discourse, they came to where 
The cursed carl was at his wonted trade; 

Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
In witching wise, as I before have said. 
But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd, 
The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 
And by his side the bard so sage and staid. 
His countenance fell ; yet oft his anxious eye 
Mark'd them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy. 

41 Nathless, with feign'd respect, he bade give back 
The rabble ix)ut, and welcomed them full kind ; 
Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack 
His orders to obey, and fall behind. 

Then he resumed his song ; and, unconfined, 
Pour'd all his music, ran through all his strings : 
With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, 
And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings. 
What pity base his song who so divinely sings ! 

42 Elate in thought, he counted them his own, 
They listen'd so intent with fix'd delight : 
But they, instead, as if transmcAv'd to stone, 
Marvell'd he could Avith such SAveet art unite 

The lights and shades of manners, Avrong and right. 
Meantime the silly croAvd the charm devour. 
Wide pressing to the gate. Swift, on the knight 
He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower. 
Who backening shunn'd his touch, for well he knew its power. 

43 As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old, 
The wary Retiarius trapp'd his foe ; 

E'en so the knight, returning on him bold. 
At once involved him in the Net of Woe, 
Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
Enraged at first, he scorn'd so Aveak a jail. 
And leap'd, and flew, and flounced to and fro ; 
But when he found that nothing could avail. 
He set him felly doAvn, and gnaAv'd his bitter nail. 

44 Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place 
Raised rueful shrieks and hideous yells around ; 



686 THOMSOIf. 

Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face, 
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound. 
As of infernal sprights in cavern bound ; 
A solemn sadness every creature strook, 
And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground ; 
Huge crowds on crowds outpour'd with blemish'd look, 
As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook. 

45 Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent, 
Steam'd from the jaws of vex'd Avernus' hole. 
And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement, 
Sir Industry the first calm moment stole : 

*^ There must," he cried, "amid so vast a shoal. 
Be some who are not tainted at the heart, 
Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl: 
Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart ; 
Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start." 

46 The bard obey'd ; and taking from his side. 
Where it in seemly sort depending hung, 

His British harp, its speaking strings he tried. 
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung, 
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung. 
Then, as he felt the Muses come along. 
Light o'er the cliords his raptured hand he flung, 
And play'd a prelude to his rising song : [throng. 

The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him 

47 Thus, ardent, burst his strain : — "Ye hapless race, 
Dire labouring here to smother reason's ray, 

That lights our Maker's image in our face, 
And gives us wide o'er Earth unquestion'd sway; 
What is th' adored Supreme Perfection, say ? 
What, but eternal never-resting soul, 
Almighty Power, and all-directing day ? 
By wlioni each atom stirs, the planets roll ; 
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole. 

48 " Come, to the beaming god your hearts unfold ! 
Draw from its fountain life ! 'Tis thence, alone, 
We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould, 

To seraphs burning round th' Almighty's throne, 
Life rising still on life, in higher tone. 
Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. 
In universal Nature this clear shown. 
Not needeth proof : to prove it were, I wis, 
To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss. 



THE CASTLE OF liq-DOLEN^CE. 687 

49 " Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? 
Do not the skies, with active ether clean, 
And fann'd by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass 
The foul November fogs, and slumbrous mass 
With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ? 
Does not the mountain stream, as clear as glass, 
Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace ? 

The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 

50 " It was not by vile loitering in ease. 

That Greece obtained, the brighter palm of art ; 
That soft yet ardent Athens learn'd to please, 

. To keen the wit, and. to sublime the heart. 
In all supreme ! complete in every part ! 
It was not thence majestic Rome arose. 
And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: 
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows; 

Renown is not the child of indolent Repose. 

51 "Had unambitious mortals minded, nought 
But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought. 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay. 
Rude nature's state had been our state to-day; 
No cities e'er their towery fronts had. raised, 
No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 

With brother-brutes the human race had grazed ; 
None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honour'd been, none 
praised. 

52 " Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
To thirst of glory and heroic deeds; 

Sweet Maro's Muse,* sunk in inglorious rest. 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; 
The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
And monkish legends been their only strains; 
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds ; [swains ; 

Our Shakespeare strolFd and laugh'd with Warwick 
Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains.* 

53 " Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, 
And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame ; 

4 Mai-o is one of Virgil's names; Publius Virgilius Maro. 

5 Mulla is the name of a river in the county of Cork, Ireland, near which Spenser, 
as Secretary of the Lord Lieutenant, had his residence, and where he composed The 

Faerie Queene. 



688 THOMSON. 

Those starry lights of virtue that diffuse 
Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame 
Had all been lost with such as have no name. 
Who then had scorn'd his ease for others' good ? 
Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame ? 
Who in the public breach devoted stood, 
And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood ? 

54 " But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be, 
If right I read, you pleasure all require ; 
Then hear how best may be obtain'd this fee, 
How best enjoy'd this Nature's wide desire. 
Toil, and be glad ! let industry inspire 

Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath ! 
Who does not act is dead ; absorb'd entire 
In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : 
leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death ! 

55 " Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
How tasteless then whatever can be given ! 
Health is the vital principle of bliss, 

And exercise of health. In proof of this. 
Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss ; 
While he whom toil has braced, or manly play, 
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day. 

56 '- 0, who can speak the vigorous joys of health ! 
Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the mind : 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find : 
See ! how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind; 
Eampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds: [breeds? 

Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce 

57 " But here, instead, is foster'd every ill 
Which or distemper'd minds or bodies know. 
Come, then, my kindred spirits ! do not spill 
Your talents here: this place is but a show. 
Whose charms delude you to the den of woe. 
Come, follow me, I will direct you right 
Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow, 



THE CASTLE OF Iiq^DOLE]S"CE. 689 

Sincere as sweet ; come, follow this good kniglit, 
And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight. 

58 " Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps ; 
To senates some, and public sage debates. 
Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight lamps, 
The world is poised, and managed mighty States; 
To high discovery some, that now creates 

The face of Earth ; some to the thriving mart ; 
Some to the rural reign, and softer fates ; 
To the sweet Muses some, who raise the heart : 
All glory shall be yours, all Nature, and all Art! 

59 " There are, I see, who listen to my lay. 
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair : 

* All may be done,' methinks I hear them say, 
' E'en death despised by generous actions fair ; 
All, — but, for those w^ho to these bowers repair, 
Their every power dissolved in luxury. 
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair. 
And from the powerful arms of sloth get free, — 
'Tis rising from the dead : — alas, it cannot be ! ' 

60 '' AYould you, then, learn to dissipate the band 
Of the huge threatening difficulties dire 
That iu the weak man's way like lions stand, 
His soul appal, and damp his rising fire ? 
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire : 
Exert that noblest privilege, alone 

Here to mankind indulged ; control desire ; 
Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne. 
Speak the commanding word, I ivill! and it is done. 

61 " Heavens I can you, then, thus waste in shameful wise 
Your few important days of trial here? 

Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise 
Through endless states of being, still more near 
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear, 
Can you renounce a fortune so sublime. 
Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer. 
And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime? 
No! no! your Heaven-touch'd hearts disdain the sordid 
crime ! " 

62 '' Enough ! enough I " they cried : straight from the crowd 
The better sort on wings of transport fly : 

As when amid the lifeless summits proud 



690 THOMSOJS^ 

Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky- 
Snows piled on snows in wintry torpor lie, 
The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play; 
Th' awaken'd heaps, in streamlets from on high, 
Eoused into action, lively leap away, 
Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay. 

63 ]^rot less the life, the vivid Joy serene. 
That lighted up these new-created men. 

Than that which wings th' exulting spirit clean. 
When, just delivered from this fleshly den. 
It soaring seeks its native skies again : 
How light its essence! how unclogg'd its powers, 
Beyond the blazon of my mortal pen ! 
E'en so we glad forsook these sinful bowers. 
E'en such enraptured life, such energy was ours. 

64 But far the greater part, with rage inflamed, 
Dire-mutter'd curses, and blasphem'd high Jove : 
"Ye sons of hate! " they bitterly exclaim'd, 

" What brought you to this seat of peace and love ? 
While with kind ISTature, here amid the grove. 
We pass'd the harmless sabbath of our time. 
What to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
Your barbarous hearts ? Is happiness a crime ? 
Then do the fiends of Hell rule in yon Heaven sublime." 

65 " Ye impious wretches," quoth the knight in wrath, 
"Your happiness behold! " — Then straight a wand 
He waved, an anti-magic power that hath. 

Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ; 
The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found ; 
On baleful heaths the groves all blacken'd stand ; 
And o'er the weedy, foul, abhorred ground 
Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around. 

66 And here and there, on trees by lightning scathed, 
Unhappy wights who loathed life yhung ; 

Or, in fresh gore and recent murder bathed, 
They weltering lay ; or else, infuriate flung 
Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
The funeral dirge, they down the torrent roll'd : 
These, by distemper'd blood to madness stung. 
Had doom'd themselves ; whence oft, when night controll'd 
The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl'd. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLEKCE. 691 

67 Meantime a moving scene was open laid ; 
That lazar-hoiise, I whilom in my lay 
Depainted have, its horrors deep displayed, 
And gave unnumber'd wretches to the day. 
Who tossing there in squalid misery lay. 
Soon as of sacred light th' unwonted smile 
Pour'd on these living catacombs its ray, 
Through the drear caverns, stretching many a mile, 

The sick upraised their heads, and dropped their woes awhile. 

68 " Heaven I " they cried, " and do we once more see 
Yon blessed Sun, and this green earth so fair ? 

Are we from noisome damps of pesthouse free ? 
And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air ? 
thou ! or knight, or god, who boldest there 
That fiend, 0, keep him in eternal chains ! 
But what for us, the children of despair. 
Brought to the brink of Hell, what hope remains? 
Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains." 

69 The gentle knight, who saw tlieir rueful case, 
Let fall ad own his silver beard some tears. 

" Certes," quoth he, " it is not e'en in grace 
To undo the past, and eke your broken years : 
Nathless, to nobler worlds repentance rears, 
With humble hope, her eye; to her is given 
A power the truly contrite heart that cheers : 
She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven ; 
She more than merely softens, she rejoices Heaven. 

70 " Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn'd. 
And by these sufferings purify the mind ; 

Let wisdom be by past misconduct learn'd ; 

" Or pious die, with penitence resign'd, 
And to a life more happy and refined, 
Doubt not, you shall new creatures yet arise. 
Till then, you may expect in me to find 
One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes, 

One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the skies." 

71 They silent heard, and pour'd their thanks in tears. 
"For you," resumed the knight with sterner tone, 

" Whose hard dry hearts the obdurate demon sears. 
That villain's gifts will cause you many a groan ; 
In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan 
His fatal charms, and weep your stains away ; 



692 THOMSON". 

Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, 
You feel a perfect change : then, who can say 
What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal day?" 

72 This said, his powerful wand he waved anew : 
Instant, a glorious angel-train descends, 

The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue; 
Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends, 
And with seraphic flame compassion blends. 
At once, delighted, to their charge they fly: 
When, lo! a goodly hospital ascends; 
In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh, 
That could the sick-bed smooth of that sad company. 

73 It was a worthy edifying sight. 

And gives to human kind peculiar grace. 
To see kind hands attending day and night. 
With tender ministry, from place to place. 
Some prop the head ; some, from the pallid face 
Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature sheds; 
Some reach the healing draught ; the whilst, to chase 
The fear supreme, around their soften 'd beds 
Some holy man by prayer all opening Heaven dispreads. 

74 Attended by a glad-acclaiming train 

Of those he rescued had from gaping Hell, 
Then turn'd the knight ; and, to his hall again 
Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell : 
Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, 
To see the helpless wretches that remain'd. 
There left through delves and deserts dire to yell; 
Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd. 
And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance feign'd. 

75 But, ah ! their scorned day of grace was past : 
For, horrible to tell ! a desert wild 

Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast ; 
With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. 
There nor trim field nor lively culture smiled ; 
Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair; 
But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled, 
Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, 
Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air. 

76 Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, 
The sadden'd country a gray waste appeared ; 
Where nought but putrid streams and n(?isome fogs 



THE CASTLE OF IKDOLENCE. 693 

For ever hung on drizzly Anster's beard ; 
Or else the ground, by piercing Caurns sered, 
Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow: 
Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd, 
By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro, 
Gaunt beggary, and scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. 

77 The first was with base dunghill rags yclad. 
Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light ; 
Of morbid hue his features, sunk and sad ; 

His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ; 
And o'er his lank jawbone, in piteous plight, 
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile ; 
- Direful to see! a heart -appalling sight! 
Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile ; 
And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while. 

78 The other was a fell despightf ul fiend ; 

Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below ; 
By pride and wit and rage and rancour keen'd ; 
Of man, alike if good or bad, the foe ; 
With nose upturn'd, he always made a show 
As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his eye 
Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal snow; 
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. 

79 E'en so through Brentford town, a town of mud, 
A herd of bristly swine is prick'd along ; 

The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud. 
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, 
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among : 
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on, 
And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng 
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ; 
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone. 



GLOSSARY 



ARCHAIC AND OBSOLETE WORDS USED IN THE PRECEDING POEM. 



Abide, 


To wait for, to await. 


Moult, 


To cast the feathers. 


Apaid, 


Paid. 


Muchel, 


Much, great. 


Abchimagi 


:, The chief of magicians or 


Nathless, 


Nevertheless. 




enchanters. 


Ne, 


Nor. Very frequent. 


Aticeen, 


Between. 


Needments, 


Necessaries. 


Bale, 


Sorrow, trouble, affliction. 


Nodden, 


Nodding. 


Benempt, 


Named, 


Noyance, 


Harm, annoyance. 


Bicker, 


To hasten, to hurry. 


Palmers, 


Pilgrims; so called from 


Blazon, 


Painting, display. 




their carrying branches 


Breme, 


Cold, raw. 




of palm. 


Caurm, 


The north-east wind. 


Plain, 


To complain. 


Certes, 


Certainly. 


Prankt, 


Highly adorned. 


CoU, 


A noise, a stir, a fuss. 


Perdie, 


An oath; from the French 


Dan, 


A title prefixed to names. 




Par Dieu. 


Deftly, 


Skilfully, adi-oitly. 


Prick, 


To spur, to goad, to ride 


Depainted, 


Painted. 




fast. 


Dole, 


Grief, dolour. 


Sere, 


Dry, withered, burnt. 


Drowsyhed, 


Drowsiness. 


Sered, 


Dried, singed. 


Eath, 


Easy, easily. 


Sicker, 


Sure, surely. 


Eftsoons 


Immediately, forthwith. 


Soot, 


Sweet, or sweetly. 


Gear, 


Furniture, equipage, dress. 


Sooth, 


True, or truth. 


Glaive, 


A sword. 


Stound, 


A pang, a sudden pain. 


Han, 


Have. 


Strook, 


Struck. 


Bight, 


Named, called, or is called. 


Sweltry, 


Sultry, oppressively hot. 


Imp, 


Cliild, offspring. 


Swink, 


To labour, to toil. 


Incontinent, 


Immediately. 


Transmew^d, 


Transformed. 


Kest, 


Cast, did cast. 


Vild, 


Yile. 


Lad, 


lied; old preterite of to 


Unkempt, 


Unadorned. 




lead. 


Ween, 


To think, to opine. 


Libbard, 


The leopard. 


Weet, 


To know; to weet, to wit. 


Lig, 


To lie, to couch. 


Whilom, 


Erewhile, formerly. 


Likes, 


Pleases ; it likes me, I like it. 


Wis, 


To think, to understand. 


Lithe, 


Limber, lax. 


Wonne, 


A dwelling, a home. 


Losel, 


A loose, idle fellow. 


Wroke, 


Wreaked. 


Louting, 


Bowing, bending. 


Yblent, 


Blended, mingled. 


Lustyhed, 


Lustihood. 


Ycleped, 


Called, named. 


Mell, 


To mix, to mingle. 


Yfere, 


Together. 


Mae, 


More. 


Ymolten, 


Melted. 


Moil, 


To struggle, to work hard. 


Yode, 


Went; preterite of yede, to 




to drudge. 




go. 


Mote, 


Might. 







694 



Boston, June, 1875. 



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